A Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy
by Glimmer Conlon O'Leary
Summary: None knew that the stunning young lady who frequented their leader's bed was anything more than a good lay. They never had the slightest inclination that she was the leader of those "brutes" in Queens-or the lengths to which she would go to protect them.
1. Prologue

Oh my gosh! She's alive! She's not dead!

Yes, I know. Long time.

So. This story, which I am heinously excited about, is actually a…_drastic_…rewrite of a story formerly known as "Queen of Queens" that I wrote in…what was it? 2003, with my cousin, Mush's Skittles.

We decided that it was high time that we revamped it and reposted it…and since she is now a full-time college sophomore, (as opposed to a high school junior, which I am now—as opposed to an 8th grader—oh god…time flies, eh?) and has zero time, I'm doing most of this—with editing and major idea help from her.

So let it begin. I hope you all enjoy!

Reviews are much appreciated!

L'n'MP (Been a long time for that, too),

Glimm

And oh yes,

Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognize from Disney's production (fancy, eh?) of Newsies. And…just an FYI…I am obsessed with Panic! at the Disco and am currently in countdown-mode to the concert I will ecstatically be attending in July, so…in each chapter, there will be Panic! lyrics. See if you can find them! (I don't own those either)

On with the show!

_**A Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy**_

_Prologue_

_.  
_

Beginning a story always seems to be the most trying part. The middle is easy—and it's where I find myself tempted to start.

With the strike. With them. And us.

But my mother, who used to tell me the most magical, spell-binding stories, always made it clear that in order to tell a proper story, one must start at the beginning: right at the space in time where your life begins to shape you for your actions later.

Right where it matters.

This has proven to be more difficult than I'd previously thought, and has taken me forever, which scares me, because, well, I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue. And I've got a long way to go.

It's also been trying to identify the beginning because it seems as though things had always been the way they were.

They say that, "In 1899, the streets of New York City echoed with the voices of newsies." And that's all true.

But what they forgot to mention was the fact that in 1899, the streets of _Queens_ echoed with the voices of _newsgirls_. And I'm not referring to the one-in-twenty newsgirl that occasionally took up work in the other boroughs. I'm talking about a gang of twenty-five girls who made up the whole of the Queens newsy population.

I don't rightly know how things came to be this way. The most logical explanation around seems to be the one that claims that, at one time, Queens was populated by both girls and boys, but that the girls, seeing that Queens was the one borough where they'd receive the warmest welcome, swarmed the area, and the boys, feeling suffocated, fled to the surrounding boroughs—leaving the girls to govern themselves.

However the living situation came about, that's how it was: girls living together in the small lodging house and selling the papes just as well as any boy.

But as the years went by, the girls leading the gang began to realize that if they did nothing to hide the fact that a gaggle of girls was living in Queens—that no big, strong men were around to protect them from turf wars—that we may lose everything.

So, as the story goes, in about 1870, the then-current Queens leader, a girl known as Cameo, took a secretive trip to Brooklyn.

Cameo was a mesmerizingly beautiful young girl—all shadows and mystery—with long, curly dark hair and piercing green eyes and creamy skin. She had just been appointed leader of the Queens newsgirls, and she meant to take her responsibility seriously.

She felt, as did all the girls, that for years they had been living in constant fear of being found out. They did the best they could to spread rumors that they were big, terrifying men that would just as soon kill you and shake your hand, but talk like that only works for so long before even the slowest of boys begin to realize that it's all coming from the same direction. Harlem could never tell Manhattan one of their boys was hurt by a Queens newsy. Brooklyn could never tell horror stories to the Bronx.

The girls knew that their vicious rumors would only work a little longer—and they could feel them crumbling already. The boys they kept such a close watch on were beginning to get curious.

So Cameo, on only her second day as leader, trekked alone to Brooklyn to see their leader and strike some kind of deal with him.

As the story goes, when she arrived at the docks where the boys lounged in between the morning and evening editions, she could feel her heart pounding.

If she didn't do this exactly right, she and her girls would lose everything.

She straightened her skirt and her spine, lifted her chin and walked down the docks, heels pounding as though they personally were on a mission. She stalked past young, muscular boys who gawked at her and made her way to the end of the dock, where the boy she knew to be leader sat on a crate as though it were a throne.

"Hello," she said loudly, and he looked up at her in surprise. The only girls he saw were the ones he and the boys brought into their lodging house—and none of those girls had the gall to simply walk down his dock in the middle of the day.

And this girl, this gorgeous, striking young woman, was so unlike all the girls he filled his nights with. She had an incredible dignity about her, something he noted with a certain amount of respect, as he could see the tears in her blouse and the dirt on her hands.

"Hello," he replied with a smirking smile that each and every leader of Brooklyn seemed to have perfected in the most infuriatingly beautiful way.

He was all slouchy sexiness, with his dark curls that peeked out from under a blue newsy hat and flopped onto his tanned forehead and into his chocolate brown eyes. He smiled at her in a way that made her feel, in the most uncomfortable way, as though he'd seen her naked. Or as though he'd surely like to.

But Cameo, ever brave and composed, was all business. She stepped closer to where he sat, and he sat up just a touch straighter.

"Could I speak with you? In private?" she asked softly, making sure the others, who were now beginning to surround the two of them, couldn't hear.

"_Speak_, hmm? That's what ya want with me?" he retorted loudly, grinning at his boys, who chuckled knowingly amongst themselves. "I guess we could maybe begin with that if ya want."

Cameo met his innuendo-filled gaze with a level stare of her own. "Yes, that's what I want," she replied firmly.

So the two leaders went inside the Brooklyn lodging house and into the Common Room, where the boys held their "shindigs," got drunk, won money from each other, and took their pick of loose women.

From there, the story loses its detail, as I don't think Cameo ever really disclosed the more intimate aspects of their conversation.

What we do know is that she once she had convinced him that Queens was indeed overrun by girls—no small feat, I'm sure—she asked him to help her keep the secret.

I can only imagine that the Brooklyn leader—Top, he was called—asked Cameo what was in it for him.

I say this because it seems to me that all the Brooklyn leaders have been the same—smart, cunning, powerful, passionate, loyal, and, underneath it all, very, very selfish.

But that's later. I'm trying, Mama. I'm really trying.

So Cam and Top struck up their deal, and from then on, each Queens leader has been just like Cameo—intelligent, ambitious, caring, _daring_, and most importantly, beautiful.

Don't you see? Brooklyn, and by that I mean its leader, had the power to protect Queens—to spread its own rumors and use its sway over the other boroughs to keep them out of Queens.

And what was in it for him? Why, the leader of Queens, of course. She was his—his to have at any time, to have his way with.

Of course, it was never referred to as such. We girls have always referred to what our leader had to do by saying that she was "his pleasurable company."

And naturally, it was all done in secret. The other boys of Brooklyn never knew that the stunning young lady—and they all thought of her as such, for there was just something about the way she looked at them that made them feel as though she were above them—who frequented their leader's bed was anything more than a good lay. They never had the slightest inclination that she was the leader of those "big giant brutes" in Queens.

So when I became the leader of the Queens newsgirls in 1898, I was sixteen, and Spot Conlon, the formidable new leader of Brooklyn, was the same age, I was sent to him on my first night as leader.

Our retiring leader, a golden Scottish belle appropriately called Scots, had gone off that morning to be married. Her fiancé, a big gorgeous blonde man, never knew of her "circumstances," as she called them, with Brooklyn. And she was determined that he never would.

"Lydia," she said to me in that gorgeous drawling accent of hers, for once calling me by my Christian name, "We do what we have to do to survive. It's not somethin' we gotta enjoy or think about once it's over. Ya just do what ya have to do, and once it's done, once ya get outta here and move on, ya tell the next girl the same thing. Ya tell her that, in acceptin' leadership, she's savin' the rest of the girls."

And I only half-understood what she said, but I nodded anyway, and she hugged me, and walked out the front door of our lodging house forever.

Later on that day, when I went up to my room to get ready, I found, on my bed, a lovely, simple dusty purple skirt with a deep, vibrant purple blouse next to it. The blouse had gorgeous intricate, lace eyelet trim on the collar, down the front, and on the sleeve cuffs.

A note on top of the skirt read, in what I recognized as Scots scrawled handwriting,

_Gleam—_

_I hear that this Spot Conlon loves ladies in purple. Be a lady, Lydia._

_All my best,_

_Scots_

So I put on Scots' old clothes, which fit marvelously, and walked the long ten-mile walk to Brooklyn.

It took two and a half hours to get there, and I suddenly understood why Scots usually left around five PM and didn't return back until shockingly late, around 1 AM.

As I hadn't taken into account the distance, I left at seven PM, after the evening edition and dinner, and didn't arrive until 9:45, as I'd gotten famished on the way and used a precious penny to buy an apple from a vender who talked my ear off for fifteen minutes.

When I got to the Brooklyn lodging house, thanks to the directions of a woman street vender who had been exhaustedly packing up her wares for the day, and had, as she gave me directions, told me to be careful in "that un-godly place," I felt like I was going to throw up from nervousness and dread.

I'd never seen this Spot Conlon in my life, and I had no idea what was going to happen when I got there.

He had been told, by way of the birdies that flocked between Scots and himself, of my impending arrival, and he was waiting for me outside in the warm early-autumn air.

I hate to say it, but he really did take my breath away. He was smolderingly exquisite, and he astounded me.

"Gleam?" he asked when I got the bottom of the stairs. His voice was a honey-smooth tenor, and it flowed with confidence and oozed of sex.

I nodded, swallowing my fear and trying to look defiant. "Spot?" I shot back, hoping my voice carried the same ease his did.

It probably didn't.

He nodded and beckoned to me, turning to go inside. I had to run up the stairs to catch him before the heavy door closed behind him. I was slightly shocked. Men usually, despite my dirty clothes and hands, treated me with some ounce of respect.

He silently led me past the Common Room, where floozies and drunken boys laughed and touched, and up the stairs. I was painfully aware that I was about to join the ranks of those girls. He turned into the first door at the top of the stairs, a door almost hidden at the left of the landing.

We walked into a small, private room, a lot like mine, that I knew to be the leader bedroom. Almost every borough's lodging house, save for Manhattan's, had one.

He sat on the bed and looked up at me. "They said all the Queens leaders was beautiful, but I had no idea. I kinda thought that maybe that Scots was just a lucky accident."

I refused to let his compliment make me glow. "No," I said coldly.

He immediately picked up on my animosity. "Aw, come on," he said, smirking, as I said before, in an infuriatingly beautiful way, "We don't gotta hate each other, do we?"

I scoffed at him, and tossed my long, curled hair behind my shoulder. I knew exactly the effect the toss of my honey-brown, red-tinted hair would have, and the way he watched it swing gave me a smirk of my own.

"Please," I spat, tucking a strand behind my right ear, "For all that we call what we do acting as 'pleasurable company,' we know what we are. We're your _whores_." I threw the final word from my mouth as though it were something vile, which it was, as though it tasted bad on my tongue, as it did.

His eyes lost their playfulness. "Hey," he said in a low rumble that made me, in spite of myself, take a quick step back as he stood to face me, "I didn't make this deal, remember? You girls did."

"_I_ didn't," I retorted, feeling my cheeks flush, "This deal was struck almost thirty years ago. I wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye yet, and I surely had nothing to do with it."

"Neither did I," he shot back, turning away and going to sit on his bed.

For just a moment, he looked almost…defeated. But no, I must've been mistaken, for in the next second, his self-satisfied smirk was back, and he was asking me what my real name was.

"I'd prefer if the likes of _you_ didn't use the name my parents gave me," I heard myself saying. I was so angry, and I wasn't sure why. He hadn't arranged this any more than I had. I suppose it was partly because I knew that he alone had the power to change what was being done.

He alone had the power to help my girls and me without the incentive of sex. But I knew, somehow, that without it, he would walk downstairs and tell all those boys—some of whom I recognized, from our spying, as Manhattan boys, that Queens was made of girls and that they should go and take us over.

"Maybe I should remind ya that I'm made o' the same 'likes' as you is," he retorted brusquely, crossing his arms and staring at me, clearly awaiting a smart comeback I didn't have.

I settled with glaring rather spectacularly at him for a horrendously long thirty seconds. "Well?" I broke the silence with a word that came out sharper than I'd intended. "Are we going to do this or what?"

"Are you a virgin?" He asked suddenly, looking at me with those serious, penetrating blue-green eyes.

As I thought back to my training, which, among the usual important things, consisted of a brief, painful, "breaking-in-process," as Scots comfortingly called it, I cringed inwardly. That night had been strange and awkward, and above all, had carried with it a tearing pain I could still feel if I concentrated hard enough.

"No, I'm not," I said boldly, wanting, for reasons I couldn't identify, to defy him in some way.

"Oh," he replied, looking rather disappointed, which I couldn't understand. Scots had told me that the leader that preceded her, Parish, had said that her Brooklyn leader had been frustrated when she had been in pain on their first encounter, and had told her, yelling, that from now on, his boys weren't to get "saddled with virgins."

"'Oh'?" I asked.

"I just thought that I'd be…" He trailed off and cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed that he even cared.

"My _first_?" I finished, smirking at him in a way that mirrored his trademark.

"Shut up," he growled, and before I could recover from my shock at a male speaking to me in such a way, he threw me down on the bed and kissed me. I'd never been kissed before, and suddenly, I was wondering why in the hell I'd waited this long.

I began to kiss him back, and his hands roamed over my body. I began to explore his, and was pleasantly surprised to find that his thin frame was adorned with long, lean muscles.

He began to quickly unbutton my blouse, and once it was off and my top half was left in merely its camisole, he removed my skirt.

It was when I had him down to his long, tight white underwear that he slowed his pace and began to be not the aggressor, but the love-maker.

He looked into my eyes, and I was shocked to feel lust begin to build up in my body. I hadn't expected this. Of course, Scots' leader had been a giant beast of a fellow, and I was certain that he had never inspired lust in a woman in his big, ugly life.

But this Spot Conlon was…well, he was spectacular.

He slowly removed my underwear, and I felt myself blush as my face grew hot. He kissed me once and then, just as attentively, slipped my camisole over my head as I raised my arms willingly.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I shouldn't be enjoying the prospect of spending the night with this boy, but, I reasoned, if I had to do this for the next few years, I may as well try to enjoy it if I could.

When I was fully naked, he lowered himself on top of me, and I gasped at the sensation that shot through my body as his glorious weight flowed over me. He kissed me deeply, and I dragged my nails lightly along the smooth skin of his back. I felt him shudder, and he immediately got up and walked over to a drawer.

I felt, for just an instant, abandoned. Then, as I watched, he dropped his underpants, and I merely lied there, stark-naked, and gawked at his behind. He opened the drawer and pulled something out. Looking down, he fasted whatever it was to…himself.

As he turned around, I almost laughed. Instead, I settled for smiling cockily and asking, "What is _that_?"

"A rubber," he replied, glancing down at it. It was erect and almost seemed to be beckoning to me. "You don't want to get pregnant, do you?" he asked smugly, his voice telling me in no uncertain terms that he was confident he was fertile enough to impregnate me on the first try.

I shook my head quickly. No, no I did not, thank you _very_ much.

"Come here," I said softly, surprising myself, and he walked to the edge of the bed and leaned over me, his hands on either side of my raised legs. His chest hit my knees and I lowered them. He seized me gently but firmly around the ribcage and easily scooted me back on the bed in a "You. Here. Now." kind of way.

One second he was only kissing me and I was running my hands over every inch of him I could reach, and the next he was inside of me.

I gasped loudly, surprised. This was not what I seemed to remember. What I remembered was rough and impersonal, and it stung and burned.

This was…this was heavenly. I moaned to the ceiling as I arched my back. He seemed to gain excitement at my noise and slammed into me, pulling out and stroking back, back, back in.

It was incredible. I raised my head to be kissed, and he lowered his mouth on mine like a starving man. As he thrusted into me, I began to feel something build inside my body.

I stopped kissing him back, and he opened his eyes. I looked at him, my eyes wide. It was the most delicious feeling I'd ever experienced, but he took my wide eyes to mean something else, and began to slow in his movements.

I wrapped my arms about his lower back and pulled him into me, fast and hard. "Don't stop," I breathed, needing nothing more in the world than to know where this feeling in my body would take me.

He entered me fully again. Again and again, and the feeling grew. As it exploded into a million little delectable pieces, I moaned again, and I could feel my whole body shuddering and tightening around him.

Spot, who had up until now merely been breathing hard and fast, let out a low, quiet grunt that was full of pleasure and wanting. As I came down from my high, I could feel his begin. It was in the way he kissed me deeper and moaned against my mouth, and in the way each and every lean muscle in his back tightened. He began to thrust faster, faster, faster, and as that amazing feeling in my body returned and exploded again, I could feel the same happen to him.

Once he had finished, he collapsed, sweaty, on top of me. I kissed his damp temple, and he gently licked and kissed my neck. After a few minutes, he rolled off of me and removed his "rubber."

I half-worried that he was going to get redressed and leave me there, but he immediately rolled back over and pulled me to him.

"Spot—"

He cut me off. "Sleep, baby," he said drowsily, snuggling against me and seeming to fall asleep immediately.

_Baby._

Oh my, but I did think I was going to rather grow to enjoy our little arrangement. I fell asleep, sweaty and hot and pleasured and altogether spent, in his arms.

_**Author Notes:**_

Panic! lyric: "I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue." _–The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage._

Reviews, por favor!


	2. Chapter 1

_-Insert Disclaimer here-_

_**Chapter 1**_

It was summer. 1899. Blisteringly hot.

There was literally no room to be eloquent about it all, really. It was _so_ hot—almost painfully so.

It was July 19, the day before the strike started. I had no idea, of course, of the impending predicament we girls would soon be in, and I was standing, erect despite the heat, at my post on the roof of the lodging house, gazing out over Queens.

It should probably be mentioned, at this point, that despite our "deal" with Brooklyn—_my _deal—we were still quite paranoid. Cautious, if you will.

Vigilant, we liked to call it.

We always had at least two girls—one on the roof, one on the Brooklyn Bridge—the bridge newsies from any other borough had to either cross or pass to get to us. And no, as leader, I was not exempt from guard duty.

So. Anyway. I was standing, erect and attentive at my—okay, okay!—I had collapsed on the ground, and was lolling around on the roof, wishing I could just _die_. Just wither away and die.

It was so _hot_.

As a result of my blatant shirking of my responsibilities, I was scared nearly out of my skin when Panic, my best friend and right hand girl, vaulted the fire escape onto the roof and landed with a thud near my right ear.

I gasped rather magnificently and sat upright like a shot.

"Mmm," she said, placing her long-nailed hands on her curving hips and gazing down at me reproachfully, rather in the way my mother used to look at me when I'd broken something, "I see ya settin' a great example up here, Ms. Leader."

I stared up at her, and with her head blocking the sun, she looked damned formidable, with her thick curves that seemed to fit her well. She'd always been bigger than me—taller and wider, but she'd never seemed in any way overweight—her shape just seemed to fit her in the most perfect way. Her long molasses brown hair was hanging straight, nearly covering her chest. And that's certainly saying something, as the girl could give me half of one breast and still have enough to make a man gawk. Her hazel eyes looked black in the shadow she was casting, and her curving eyebrows were arched at me. Her lips, not exactly sensuously full at best, were drawn into a thin line as she looked down at me.

She sighed and sat down next to me, and we both adjusted to lean against the ledge.

"What's going on?" I asked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"Manhattan is coming," she said calmly, turning to look at me.

"_What_!" I exclaimed, scrambling to my feet to look down at her, feeling my chest clench and my stomach drop to the ground below.

Panic seemed completely unfazed. That's how she got the name, by the way: Panic. We call her that because she never does. Panic, I mean. She seems to have this innate ability to remain completely calm in any situation.

Really, sometimes I think she would have been better suited to be leader. But, well, there's the whole Brooklyn thing, and those boys like their girls short and toned, with curves under muscle. I climb things like a monkey, so I've got that going for me. But Panic, well, she's too damned…_dignified_ to climb on things.

But I digress. Back to my nearly having two heart attacks and a massive stroke all at once.

"They're…they're coming? _Here_? Now?" I was pacing and rambling, I knew—not exactly acting like the composed leader I was supposed to be. But that's what I had Panic for. She was my brain when mine refused to work.

"Well, they _were_. But Angel and Lady was in Manhattan today, and they heard it all, so Lady flew to the bridge to find Sprint, who was guardin' the bridge, and she went to Spot."

"Sprint went to Spot?" I repeated, feeling, for some reason I couldn't put my finger on, displeased. It was, after all, what I'd told her to do in case of an emergency.

"Yeah. She just got back. She's downstairs restin'. She told him that the boys was comin', and he sent someone to head 'em off at the bridge."

"Who was coming?" I asked, for we made it our business to know all the other newsies—at least those in Manhattan and Brooklyn, the most influential boroughs—by name and face.

"Bumlets, Specs, and Skittery. The Cowboy sent 'em."

"Why? Does he know? Did _Spot_—" I was practically having conniptions by the time Panic cut me off.

"Sit down, Gleam." I remained where I was. She sighed and said, "Spot didn't tell nobody nothin'. The Cowboy sent 'em to talk to the leader o' Queens about—"

I cut her off. "So Jack Kelly's playing leader these days, hmm? I though Manhattan didn't _have_ a leader—just the Cowboy as their sideshow clown to seek humorous vengeance on the Morris brothers?" I paused. "Sent them to talk about what?"

"Well, the boys is…they wanna go on strike, Gleam. 'Cause of the jack-up this mornin'."

I remembered only too well the shock and dismay we'd all felt at finding that the price of our papes had risen to a ludicrous sixty cents a hundred.

"Strike? Strike like…like the trolley strike? Strike like we're actually an organized group of people?"

"Yeah." Panic looked up at me from where she sat, and her level gaze made me so nervous I caved and sat back down next to her on the ground. "There's this new kid," she continued, once I'd settled down, "David. He's…he talks like you," she said, turning her head to smile softly at me.

"So he's been to school, has he?" I asked to no one in particular, feeling slightly put-out. I'd always been the best-spoken newsy around. Not that anybody but Queens girls _knew _that, but…I disliked this _David_ already.

"I guess. Got a family and everythin'. Cutest little brother you ever seen. Les, I think his name is."

Panic loves kids. Claims she doesn't know if she wants any of her own, claims she may not like motherhood, but look at her with a kid, and you know: one day she'll be the happy, glowing mother with six or seven brats around her, all clamoring to get some of their mama's loving attention.

I knew if I didn't break in I would receive a full physical description of this Les, plus any little personality quirks Panic had discovered him in the maybe fifteen minutes she'd been near him the day before.

"So this David, he's smart? And he's basically the brain behind the Cowboy's big mouth?"

"Seems like it. He's real smart, Gleam. Said all this great stuff about how we gotta stand up for our rights—'course, Jack said it all, but I was on a bench watchin', and anyone close enough could see that it was this David talkin'."

"So then what?" I asked, still reeling with disbelief that Jack was trying to get all the newsies of New York City organized.

"So then Jack started sendin' people all over the city—the Battery, Harlem, Midtown…Queens—and then he wanted someone to go to Brooklyn, but then the little black boy—Boots—he said that…that Spot Conlon made them all a 'little nervous.' And then Jack said that Spot didn't make _him_ nervous, so he and Boots would go, and that David would go too."

"Oh, Spot'll _love_ a guy who can't keep his mouth shut." I rolled my eyes and leaned my head back against the ledge, looking up into the dazzling sun, trying to figure out what I was going to do about all this.

"But then David said he'd only go if…" Panic paused and looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief, as though she still couldn't believe what happened next. "If Jack went to Pulitzer."

My head flew down and I swung my neck to gape at her. "To Pulitzer? _Jack Kelly_ walked into The World building and demanded that _Pulitzer_ lower the prices?"

"Yeah. He took Les with him. But…they got thrown out."

I laughed, but Panic shot me a stern glare and I quickly composed myself. "So then what happened?"

"Well, far as I can tell from what I saw, David talked to some reporter who was hangin' 'round. The guy seemed real interested in the strike."

"Someone actually thinks _we_ could be a story?" I asked, before backtracking and adding, "I mean, that the _boys_ could be a story? Because…because we can't get involved."

"Why not, Gleam?" Panic asked, standing and pulling me up with her, surprising me.

"Why not?" I repeated dumbly. "Why _not!_" I stared at her, shocked that she would even consider it. "Why can't we get involved! Because it will completely and totally _ruin _everything we've worked for for the last thirty-some years, that's why!"

"Gleam," Panic said, losing her composure just slightly, something I noticed with a small bit of satisfaction, "Sprint got to Spot before Bumlets, Specs and Skittery had even crossed the bridge. He sent a runner to tell 'em to turn around, that they couldn't go to Queens—that only he could go to Queens. Sprint said they seemed real relieved. Said they told the runner that they were just tryin' ta figure out how they could turn 'round and go home without it lookin' like they was scared."

I breathed out heavily, running a hand through my hair. All the sudden, the heat I'd forgotten in my shock came back full force. My hair was too long, too heavy. I scooped it up in my hands and secured it, with an elastic from the papers that morning, in a high, messy bun. I sighed as, immediately, the shorter pieces that framed my face fell down into it.

"Well, that's one crisis averted," I said, forcing a smile in Panic's direction. "What do we do now?" I continued.

"What do you mean? You don't wanna get _involved_, right? We don't gotta do nothin' now."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were pissed that I wasn't going to get into all this."

She scoffed at me, looking indignant. "Well, I kinda am! We gotta do somethin', Gleam! We can't jus' sit back and let the boys do everythin'! We—"

"What the hell do you want from me, Panic?" I yelled at her, fuming, "Do you want me to go to Jack and Spot, and Young from Harlem, and Stinger from The Bronx, and tell them that we're all girls and that we want to help! Do you think they'll even be able to remember that there's a strike going on if we do that? They'll be here so fast our heads will spin—and then where will we be? Where're we gonna go? We have forty girls to protect here, Panic!

"I want to help as much as you do, but we can't! We just…" I lost a little steam at that point, and sat down heavily on the edge of the roof. Panic, looking once again like a mom, sat down beside me. "We just can't."

She threw an arm about my shoulders and pulled me close for just a moment before releasing me. "We can't sit here and do nothin'. Jack, David, and Boots is in Brooklyn right now. If we can't make ourselves known, then you gotta at least make sure Brooklyn helps."

"Why wouldn't they?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Because," Panic said patiently, fully aware that I was just being stubborn, "He's gonna wanna make sure they's serious."

I broke in, wanting, for some odd reason, to defend Spot. "But he'll be right! Spot knows that inspiring words are one thing, but…if Manhattan really wants to do this, they can't do it halfway. They have to be serious—and they've got to back their shit up with more than good hooks and pretty fighting words."

But if he waits too long, this thing is gonna blow up and 'Hattan will be in big trouble, Gleam."

I groaned and stood, walking toward the small door that led back into the lodging house. Panic followed me in and kept a few paces behind me as I walked through the main bunkroom, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door.

Only when I was down the front steps did she ask, standing at the top, leaning on the door frame, "Where're you going?"

"Shut up!" I called over my shoulder, earning a hearty glare from a middle-aged woman with a small boy, "It's not like you don't already know!"

Seething, knowing I'd been bested by Panic's logic, I trekked begrudgingly to Brooklyn.

_(end. )_

**Notes: **Reviews please! The review from the prologue were great—thanks to all—and yes, I did check to see that rubber bands were invented and in newspaper use by 1899. Invented 1845. 

Panic! lyric: "…back your shit up with more than good hooks…" _–London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines._

Hope you enjoyed!

L'n'MP,

Glimm


	3. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

. >

It hit me, as the Brooklyn docks came into view, and I hopped off the back of the wagon I'd hitched a ride on, that I'd never arrived there unexpectedly (and uninvited) before—and certainly never with my hair in a messy bun, in my oldest, most frayed, rust-colored skirt and black, short-sleeved blouse.

I'd always dressed carefully to go to Brooklyn. After our first night, I'd learned that Spot not only liked girls in purple, but also—and _mostly_, it seemed—in greens. I'd found that I loved the look he gave me when I walked through the front door and caught his eye: a look of desire; of _gratefulness_, almost, though it didn't really seem possible for Spot Conlon to be outwardly grateful for anything.

In the scorching heat of the journey, I'd unbuttoned my blouse almost to my navel, exposing the dishwater-white camisole beneath.

I began to get nervous, and I was more than just slightly ashamed of myself when it hit me that I wasn't so much nervous about talking to him about the _strike_—I was nervous because it worried me that he wouldn't think I was pretty enough in my dirty clothes, with my sweaty face, and my messy, undone hair.

I hated feeling obligated to please him. I hated how it gave me personal pleasure to know that he wanted me.

_Ugh_.

I'd set out a little past eleven-thirty, when I should have been heading down to Queenie's (it's so clichéd, I know—we _love_ it) for lunch, and I was starving—and the heat didn't help.

It was now almost one o'clock, and I knew that most of Brooklyn's newsies would be eating lunch at Dell's, waiting for four o'clock, when the Evening Editions would come off the press.

But Spot Conlon was not most newsies. He didn't eat lunch with his boys—said he needed his "alone time," which was always the one thing about him I completely understood. I appointed myself guard of the roof between the morning and evening editions, usually eating lunch up there, by myself, because I needed to just have one moment—one brief, infinitesimal moment in my long day where I could be _completely alone_ before heading back to Newspaper Row to pick up the Evening Edition.

Spot never sold the evening edition unless money was so tight that he absolutely had to. Mostly you hear stories of how the Cowboy, Jack Kelly, was the best seller around, but, well…that was just Manhattan. In Brooklyn, Spot Conlon dominated the selling business.

I pride myself on being pretty damned good, and most days, I _have_ to sell twice a day to make ends meet.

(Bitter.)

I figured he'd be on the docks, as I knew, from the condition of my own lodging house, that being inside was almost enough to suffocate you.

Again, so hot you just wanted to _die_.

But as I clomped down the dock, my heels clicking, I didn't see anyone. Disappointed and feeling a little put-out, I slowed and almost turned back when I heard a creaking as if from a ladder.

The noise came from directly on my right, and I turned to face it. Spot, naked from the waist up, his bottom half barely concealed in translucent white boxer-briefs, came up the ladder from the dirty East River, looking about for the source of the footsteps.

When he caught sight of me, he looked, for just a moment, surprised. Then, that trademark, exasperating smirk decorated his handsome face and he hopped onto the docks.

I was painfully aware that he was dripping wet.

"So, ya just couldn't wait till tomorrow night, eh?" he asked cockily, his eyes teasing and just soft enough so that I didn't take much offense at his words.

"That's not why I'm here, Conlon," I shot back, crossing my arms briefly before realizing that, despite the snappy effect, all the action really did was make me even hotter than I already was.

"Mmm," he said lazily, walking past me and sitting down on a crate. He patted the spot beside him, on his right, and, smiling even while rolling my eyes, I sat down next to him. "This is about the strike, isn' it?"

"Of course it is, Spot," I said softly, looking sideways at him from where I sat. His profile was gorgeous. _Get a grip, Lydia, _I scolded myself before continuing, "First of all…thank you. For heading off Manhattan, I mean."

"All part o' the deal," he said, shrugging, and, in an odd sense, his words stung me.

"Yes. The deal. Of course, the deal." My voice came out sharper than I'd intended, and his eyes shot over to look at me sideways.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked, looking irritated, "Are you on the rag?"

I gasped in shock and stood, feeling bruised and angry. "What in the _hell_ gives you the right to say that to me?" I asked, my voice nearly an octave higher than usual. He stood as well and opened his mouth to speak, but I raised a hand, which, unexpectedly, actually shut him up. "I came here to talk to you about the _strike_. And to thank you. And…and I've thanked you now, so…so…"

"So _what_, Gleam?" he asked softly, huskily, smugly, knowing he'd gotten to me and reveling in the moment.

"So you have to _help_ them, Spot. You just _have_ to. You can't let Manhattan go at this alone."

"They won't be. They'll have the other boroughs to help 'em."

"No they _won't_, Spot. Not without you. You know full well that no other leader is gonna bring his boys into this without knowing that they've got the backing of Brooklyn. They're all waiting to see what _you're_ gonna do, and—"

"You sound just like that Walkin' Mouth, David," he said with a voice that mixed of impressed disgust.

I groaned. "I've heard all about that David. And he…" I didn't want to get into how it felt like he was taking my…my _thunder_, I suppose. Spot would never get it, so I just asked, "When was _he_ here?"

Spot frowned in recollection, looking annoyed with the recent memory. "Him, Jack, and Boots left 'round fifteen minutes ago."

So. It took about an hour and fifteen to get to Brooklyn from Manhattan by foot, so that meant that Jack and his cronies had left Manhattan—and walked, obviously—just as Sprint had gotten back to Queens. Knowing she'd waited to come home until Bumlets, Specs, and Skittery were a good distance away and over the Bridge, I briefly wondered if that reporter Panic had mentioned had anything to do with their delayed arrival.

"And? What'd he say to you?"

"Jus' a lotta noise 'bout how I gotta help 'em, and 'bout how all the other newsies is waitin' to see what I'm gonna do."

"He's _smart_ Spot. He knew to play to your vanity and tell you how strong and influential you are, I'm sure, and he knew to tell you what your birds had already told you—that everyone else, from the Battery to Jersey City, is waiting on you."

All the sudden, I was so tired. It was a combination, I think, of the heat and humidity, and of my lack of food, and of the fact that I'd been up since six in the morning, selling from seven till ten before heading up to the roof for my hour-and-a-half guard shift.

It also didn't help that there was a damp, gorgeous, frustrating boy standing in front of me.

"It wasn't just 'noise', Spot—it's _true_, and you know it is. Every other leader in the New York City area is just sitting and waiting to hear what your plan is from their _own_ birds."

He sighed, and raked a hand through his shaggy light brown hair. It drove me nuts when he did that—I told him it was annoying, but really, it just made me want to _jump on him_. I really needed to work on my hormones when it came to Mr. Spot Conlon, or I was going to get myself—and my emotions—into a whole mess of trouble.

_Blah._

"I need t' make sure Jacky-boy's serious 'bout this thing before I drag me boys into it," he said, sounding torn between wanting to help a friend and wanting to protect his own interests. I knew him well enough to know that his own needs would take precedence over Jack's.

I sighed, not knowing what to say next. I hadn't really thought this through, I realized, as I stood in front of him. He was almost dry by now, as the hot air had sucked the moisture off of his skin quick as lightning.

"What if it turns out they _are_ serious, Spot? Can you guarantee that you'll step in and have their backs?" I asked, hands on hips, eyebrow raised in a cockily questioning manner.

He frowned briefly before shooting me a half-grin and shrugging. "Yeah. I can guarantee ya that if Jacky-boy and his newsies can prove that they's serious, then I'll jump right in there."

His voice held so much doubt and sarcasm that I felt like slapping him.

"They _will_, Spot. Jack will make it happen." I paused and flashed his half-grin back at him. "And then _you'll_ have to do the same."

For just a brief second, his expression froze, as though it had only just hit him that _action_ on his part was entirely possible. Then he adjusted his smile and tilted his head sideways to look at me.

"Go for a swim?" he asked, and, not waiting for a reply, ran to the edge of the dock and took a flying leap off, diving into the water.

I followed his path to the edge and stared down at the reflective river. He resurfaced, beaming, and shook his shaggy hair out of his face, squinting up at me.

"Scared, eh?" he called up, leaning toward the sky to float on his back.

_Oooh._

If it was one thing I hated, it was being called chicken. Feeling slightly sinful in a deliciously guilty way, I stepped back from the ledge and unbuttoned my shirt the rest of the way and slipped it off. I peeled my damp camisole from my body, the unbuttoned my skirt, letting it drop to the ground. I removed my boots and stockings, and stood, in broad daylight, in only my bodice, which only covered my shoulders, leaving my arms bare. The neckline was low, my breasts supported by a small underwire and built-in padding. My petticoat, which covered my bottom half, fit snugly around my waist, but was so old that it had ripped away from the bottom ruffles, leaving me only with the first two. The result—a "skirt" that covered me only to mid-thigh—was scandalous, and the feeling that came over me as I stood, in all white, on a Brooklyn dock in the middle of a real scorcher, was incredible.

I'd never felt so rebellious, so…_sexy_, in my life. I felt like I could anything: be President; be a doctor; take on the entire newsboy population and come out on top, leader of them all; tell Spot I loved him—_Oh_.

Oh _no_.

I lost my train of thought. Where was it that we last left off? Oh…

I strolled to the edge of the dock and looked down. As my movement caught the corner of his eye, Spot looked in my direction, and, to my deepest satisfaction, he sat up so quickly in the water that he sent himself nearly all the way under the water and came up blinking and sputtering.

I laughed and dove in right next to him, narrowly missing him as I entered the water. When I surfaced, I reached up into my bun and dug into the rubber band holding my hair with a long nail. It broke and fell into the water, and I shook my hair down over my shoulders.

Suddenly, it was as though all the tension between us was gone, and we spent the next few hours laughing and dunking and passing the time floating on our backs, looking at the puffy white clouds and coming up with outlandish things that they looked like. Well, _I_ came up with ideas, at least. I tried to get Spot to throw ideas around, but he refused. I suppose it's beneath the _King of Brooklyn _to cloud-gaze and say which one looks like a jelly-fish and which one looks like a foot.

At one point I said, laughing, "Fine, if you're gonna be boring, you go down!" and shoved him under the water. He was too quick, though, and pulled me down with him.

We both came up gasping, and I smoothed my hair back away from my face. Spot gazed at me long and hard, and all the unusual playfulness of the last few hours disappeared.

"Hi," I said softly, looking sideways at him. He didn't reply, and instead swam silently over to the ladder, where he, instead of climbing it, stood on the wide step, in the water up to his waist. He looked at me expectantly, and, not knowing what else to do, I swam over to him. I stood facing him on the step, leaning into the ladder with my left shoulder.

He stared at me, his (there is a cliché ahead) piercing blue-green eyes searing (told you) into me. I swallowed, feeling nervous. I saw his eyes flick down to my breasts and abdomen, and, automatically, I looked down at myself. My bodice was clinging to my chest, and where the padding on my breasts ended, the bodice became nearly completely transparent. The color of my skin was visible through the sopping cloth, and every muscle in my stomach was tight with nerves.

One second we were both looking at my stomach and breasts (a strange feeling indeed), and the next his wet, cold lips were on mine and we were falling back into the water, swallowing the filthy stuff and not caring, nearly drowning each other as we fought to stay above the water. Showing incredible strength and control, Spot managed to swim both of us back to the step and lean me against the cold metal ladder. He pressed his entire body into mine, and my shoulder blades dug into the rungs, but I barely took any notice, for at the same moment, his right hand dropped under the water and found its way in between my legs.

That boy has magic hands, if you catch my drift.

I moaned lowly and leaned into him even more, attempting to envelop myself in him.

It was at that inopportune moment that Spot's runner, the same one that had saved my tail that day, Zip, chose to show up.

"Spot?" he called. Spot and I froze. His fingers stopped doing their delectable dance inside me and he pulled them out to grip my hipbones, and our lips froze on each other's. We could hear Zip running down the dock. He slowed and stopped when he was directly above us. I envisioned him looking at the two pairs of discarded clothes on the dock, and, sure enough, he murmured to himself, "What the hell is…?" He walked to the edge of the dock and looked down at us. "Spot?"

Spot sighed and pulled away from me. The complete removal of all contact left me feeling empty. I could literally feel his touch slip from my body. "Yeah Zip?" he replied, acting as though the presence of a nearly-naked girl was no to-do, and Zip, bless him, took the cue like a pro and said nothing.

"They did it, Spot." He sounded excited, and didn't even wait for Spot to reply. Zip was one of the smallest Brooklyn boys, not in age—he was seventeen—but in size. Around 5'4", he was barely taller than me, and he certainly weighed less, making me feel like a complete cow when he was around. Thin and wispy, he was adorned with long, sinewy muscle. Pale, porcelain skin, rosy cheeks, and jet-black hair with cat-green eyes made him look strange in a mysteriously attractive way. "Manhattan. They did it. When the Evenin' Edition came up, they threatened the scabs, and when that didn' work, they fought 'em. I saw the whole thing. It was crazy." He paused and looked off into the sun. "Crutchy, the crip, got taken t' the Refuge. I heard Jack say they's gonna break 'im out tonight."

I managed to hold my tongue until Spot had dismissed Zip to go eat Dinner at Dell's. "Looks like it's _your_ turn now, Spot."

_end._

_. > _

_**Notes:**_

Sorry this took so long. I had finals and a lot of stuff going on, and now that exams and school are over, I can write more often. Reviews please! Love you all madly!

Panic! lyric:

"…I lost my train of thought. Where was it that we last left off?" –_Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off_


	4. Chapter 3

_(Disclaimer: You know the drill. I didn't do it.)_

_**Chapter 3**  
_

.>

The next morning, I woke up before the sun, stiff and uncomfortable. I groaned and rolled over, my eyes shooting open as my cheek came in contact with…_wood_?

I sat up abruptly and looked around. I was lying in a secluded corner of the Brooklyn docks, surrounded by crates that blocked me from view. Spot was sleeping on his back next to me, his right arm outstretched, as I had been lying on it only moments before, wearing only his tight undergarments.

Still wearing only my petticoat and bodice, my left arm was lined with the imprints of the wood. I stood and felt every bone in my back crack. I twisted this way and that, popping everything I could, twisting my neck to either side, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of it cracking.

I nudged Spot gently in the side with my toe, and he stirred, his throat emitting a soft, whimpering noise that was so adorable, my heart clenched. I nudged him a little harder and crouched down, feeling my back ache with complaint as I did so. Selling was going to be a bitch today.

Suddenly, I remembered. There would be no selling today. We were, as Jack and his boys had made very clear the previous evening, on strike. Today would be the day that Brooklyn would have to make its allegiance known.

I shook Spot once more, and he finally woke, looking up at me with bleary eyes, and I saw, for the first time, Spot Conlon unmarked by his role as hardened leader. I saw him completely unmasked—the real Spot Conlon that he hid every day. His eyes were soft and kind, and his lips, usually smirking or preparing to do so, were relaxed. What I saw in his eyes—the sadness and self-doubt of a boy thrust into manhood before he was ready—almost knocked me backward.

But it was gone in a split second, and the King of Brooklyn returned with full force. He stood quickly, looking around for his trousers, shirt, and suspenders. He found them, along with his shoes and all my clothing, draped over a crate.

"What time is it?" he asked, his voice gruff with sleep.

"I don't know," I replied, looking around to the street. "There's not really anyone around, and the sun's not even up, and it's still deep-dark. I'm guessing one, maybe two?"

He sighed tiredly. I was tired too. We'd been up nearly all of the previous night, talking about the upcoming strike, and what he, Spot, was going to do to defend Manhattan. That, however, got to be a tedious way to pass time after a while, and we resorted to our favorite pastime.

_Shhh._

"Are you jus' gonna walk home, then?" he asked, pulling on his clothes quickly, readying himself, it seemed, to catch some more sleep in the lodging house.

I immediately felt scorned. I had been hoping he would ask me to stay. But that was ridiculous, really. I was just a deal to him. Nothing more.

I nodded wearily and pulled on my skirt, camisole, blouse, and stockings. I was lacing up my boots when Spot, who had, for some reason, been sitting on a crate, watching me, spoke up with, "You know, it's still dark. Maybe you should just come in and wait till it's at least light out. We don' need t' sell t'day anyway, so ya wouldn' be missin' nothin'."

I was shocked. In a good way. I merely stared at him for a moment, trying to discern from his expression whether this invitation meant something more than just…just…protecting me as a part of our deal.

When his face revealed nothing, I shrugged nonchalantly and said, in what I hoped was a casual tone, "Sure."

Moments later, we were upstairs in his bedroom, and I fully expected him to fling off his clothing, and then mine, and hurl me onto the bed, as that was what usually happened the moment we set foot into this room.

As he began to disrobe, I found myself unexpectedly overtaken by disappointment. So this was just another call for sex, was it? But I was surprised, yet again, when he stopped the removal of his clothing when he reached his underwear.

He turned down the blankets and slid agilely into the bed. He glanced over to where I stood by the closed door, transfixed, and said, "Aren't you gonna sleep?"

I had never slept with him—in his bed or elsewhere—when there hadn't been sex beforehand. Without responding, I removed all of my clothing save for my bodice and petticoat, and approached the empty side of the bed, not entirely certain of myself.

My eyes were drawn, in the flickering light of the candle on the bedside table, to the clock on the dresser. 2:16 AM. I stared at the hands of the clock, transfixed as the minute hand swept smoothly around the face of the clock.

I tore my eyes from the clock and looked down at Spot, taking in his candlelit features.

"Well, get in," he said softly, looking into my face with eyes I'd never seen before. They weren't full of lust or arousal, or anger, or hardness. They were tired, inviting, soft. Safe, almost.

I slipped beneath the covers. I hoped against hope that he would pull me to him and cuddle into me, but he merely rolled over, blew out the light, and promptly fell asleep. Feeling, in spite of myself, close to tears, I gazed up at the ceiling and, in time, fell into sleep as well.

When I woke up a few hours later, the dim dawning light lit the room just enough to allow me to see the clock. 4:47.

I knew that boys started lining up for the morning editions at about 6:30. I knew that Jack and his boys wouldn't let any more scabs get through this morning, and that Spot, as he'd promised, needed to help. We'd have to organize Brooklyn and leave soon in order to get there in time.

As I made a move to sit up, I realized, for the first time, that Spot, though he had begun his nap with his back to me, had not taken the whole of it that way. He was nestled, laying on his right side, into my left, his head resting gently near my collarbone, his left arm thrown over my stomach. I smiled, feeling pleasure seep through my body, ending at my toes, which tingled with satisfaction.

I sighed, knowing that we had to get up, cursing time for not moving more slowly so I could just relish this moment. I sat up quickly, completely, and my fluid movement woke Spot, who rolled over, automatically rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

I looked down at him, waiting for him to open his eyes. I wondered it he would look around at me in surprise, having forgotten I was there, or if he would look irritated that I had woken him instead of just leaving on my own. Or if (I tried not to hope) he would smile and kiss me.

He did none of the above.

He looked over at me with no trace of surprise, or irritation, or a smile. He looked into my face with his tired eyes that were hardening with each passing second and said flatly, "So I guess you're waitin' for me t' go t' Jacky-boy's rescue, eh?"

I decided to smile innocently. "You can do whatever your little heart desires, Conlon." At his taken-aback look, I added, "but if you don't go help him, your little _friend_," I gazed meaningfully at his pelvic area, "won't be getting what _it_ desires."

He looked shocked and indignant, and I fought down a giggle. "First of all," he began hotly, "_little_ ain't somethin' I'd use t' describe that p'ticular part of my body, and second, y' can't pull that shit, Gleam, it's in the fuckin' deal."

I was kind of riled at how angry he was getting, but decided I was having way too much fun screwing with him to back down now.

I licked my lips in the self-satisfied way I knew made him, well, _hot and bothered_, to be perfectly clichéd about it. "Well, I'll of course let you use my…_equipment_…but I won't play back—and I know that's your favorite part."

His eyes flashed, and he moved as though to grab my arms and hold me down. He certainly put his hands around both my wrists as he turned to me.

My heartbeat quickened, and I wasn't quite sure if I was scared or turned on.

As he looked into my face, however, the heated anger left his eyes and he sighed. He even threw on a bit of the Conlon smirk as he said, "Well, I guess I'd better wake the boys and get to 'Hattan quick-like."

My heart returned to its normal rhythm in my chest, and the knot I hadn't realized had formed in my stomach when he'd grabbed me untied itself with a whooshing rush. I smiled at him, a shy, childlike smile I gave him all the time.

"I don't buy that shit, Gleam," he said, but his tone didn't match his harsh words, "You're not as innocent as that smile makes y' look, and you know it."

I laughed outright and hopped out of the bed. I pulled on my clothes with lightning speed and looked over at him. He was still sitting on the bed, merely gazing at me with a slightly glazed look in his eyes.

"Well?" I said loudly, shaking him back to attention, "Are you going or what?"

He nodded silently, still looking troubled about something. But he just walked from the room and into the bunkroom. I could hear him shaking boys from their sleeps and shouting names.

"Zip! Get up! Run to 'Hattan and scope out what'cha can. Don' let 'em know you're there, y'hear?"

I heard Zip's quick feet hit the floor. He zoomed into the washroom and was out the bunkroom door within the minute, sprinting past where I stood near the doorway, sparing me only a small, knowing smile. I flushed, recalling what'd he ran in on the previous afternoon.

"Bourbon, get off y' ass, man! Help me get the boys up!"

Spot and Bourbon—the dark, devastatingly good-looking right-hand man—swept through the room, hitting boys upside the head and in the feet, waking them as I'd heard them do every morning I'd been there.

"Alt!" _Smack_.

"Shifty!" _Smack_.

"Water!" _Smack_.

"Brandy!" _Smack_.

And so on it went, until the bunkroom was swarming with hurrying, sleep-addled boys stumbling around washing and dressing.

Spot stalked past me and back into his room without a word, his hair wet and his face and hands freshly scrubbed. He came back out in less than two minutes, wearing the same worn chocolate brown pants, brown and crème checked shirt, and red suspenders he'd worn the day before. He jammed his grey hat on his head and checked himself to make sure he had his slingshot, cane, and necklace on.

He bounded down the stairs with the laces of his black shoes untied, and I followed him down.

He arrived at the front door and threw it open to greet the gorgeously sunny day that was approaching quickly. He leaned casually against the doorframe, holding the door open with his back.

He bent to tie his shoes, and when he straightened, I was standing right in front of him. Anyone else would have jumped, even if just slightly, but Spot just gave me a level stare for a few moments before turning his head to the stairs and yelling, "Come the fuck on, boys! We gotta get t' 'Hattan before the papes come out!"

Almost immediately, feet pounded on the stairs as the boys came down them. Most ran by Spot without questioning why they were heading to Manhattan at five A.M., but Bourbon, as right-hand man, seemed to feel he was entitled to an answer.

I'd never really spoken to him, as Spot tended to keep me clear of Brooklyn's bashes and the jealous little alley cats that frequented them, hoping to sleep with the leader of Brooklyn that night, but from the little I'd seen of him, Bourbon seemed like a good guy.

And, like I said, he was devastatingly good-looking. Though, for some reason, however much I appreciated the fact that his chiseled jaw-line, dark eyes you could swim in, full lips, and tan, tan skin that covered lean, sinewy muscles, and dark, curling hair that fell into those gorgeous eyes was enough to make any girl weak in the knees, I still felt, somehow, that he didn't hold a candle to Spot.

_Jeez_. I was in deep.

"Spot," Bourbon began slowly, his dark eyes squinty and bemused, as he adjusted his hat on his loose curls, "Why 'xactly is we goin' t' 'Hattan?"

Spot stood fully, holding the door open for Bourbon and me. We took his cue and walked out. I tried to look uninterested and cutely stupid, like every other girl that hung around the Brooklyn Lodging House. But even as I looked down into the street, where the other boys milled around, waiting for the signal to leave, I listened closely.

"Bourbon, Jack's takin' this strike business real serious. They soaked the scabs who took the Evenin' Edition yesterday, and we both know Pulitzer and his goons ain' gonna let 'em get away with that again, so we gotta go and give 'em some backup."

I watched them out the corner of my eye as Bourbon took this in.

Bourbon nodded, and I knew, somehow, that as soon as David, Jack, and Boots had taken their leave the previous day, he had, like me, tried to convince Spot to help Jack.

"So this means we's in this, then, Spot?" Bourbon asked, managing to look both determined and apprehensive at the same time.

"Yep," Spot said simply, as though it were really no big deal. I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

"An' so that means that all the other boroughs is pro'ly in this, too, then?" he finished.

"If they wanna be," Spot said, and this time, I had to turn my back to they wouldn't see my grin. Bourbon and Spot—and I—knew that if Spot and Brooklyn were in this, then everyone else was too.

Bourbon sighed. "God, a fuckin' _strike_. Just another normal day, 'eh? He said, chuckling.

I turned back as Spot shook his head, looking resigned to the idea. "Well, it sure as hell ain't normal. But…we deal."

They stood in silence for a moment, both of them looking perturbed and uneasy in spite of themselves.

"Well, let's get this shit rollin' then," Bourbon said decisively and suddenly, and he jumped the steps, landing cat-like in the street. He turned and faced Spot, and from where I stood on the middle step, I felt an awkward in-the-spotlight sensation.

As Spot addressed his boys, I decided to make my exit. I walked down the steps and headed in the direction of home, the opposite direction the boys where heading to get to Manhattan.

I heard Spot ask the boys if they all had their slingshots, and I felt the first twinge of worry. What was going to happen when Pulitzer grabbed his goons and tried to stop to the boys?

I shook off my anxiety and told myself that Spot could take care of it, that he could handle it. Honestly, I really thought Spot Conlon could handle and take care of anything.

I looked back once and saw the boys heading to Manhattan at a slow jog, some jumping on others, play-fighting and laughing.

I turned back and kept on down the street toward Queens. As I neared the corner, I heard footsteps clicking softly on the cobblestones behind me, and I slowed, turning as I did.

It was Spot. The troubled, bothered look had returned to his face, and he just looked at me in a completely irritating way.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked, feeling impatient and even a little panicky. Jack and his boys needed help, and here he was, standing in front of me, silent as a mute.

"Were you being serious?" he asked, his voice annoyed but anxious, as though he really wanted to know but was angry with himself for caring. At my blank look, he continued, "I mean, about not…" he cleared his throat and pursed his lips in a 'tough guy' expression. "Playin' back?"

I gaped at him, shocked that he would even dwell on that. "Well, I was mostly just trying to convince you to help, but…just thank your lucky stars you'll never have to find out just how kidding I was and get to Manhattan."

I smiled softly and grasped his forearm briefly, turning to go. I turned back almost immediately, before he had even turned to rejoin his boys.

On a crazy whim, I kissed him soundly on the lips, pulling him to me by cupping my right hand around the nape of his neck.

"Good luck," I said softly, and turned rapidly, embarrassed with myself. I again started off toward home. I looked back as I turned the corner, and caught a brief glimpse of Spot Conlon, usually so tough and self-assured, standing in the middle of the deserted street, the first two fingers of his right hand resting on his lips, an utterly nonplussed expression on his face.

.>

**_End Notes:_**

I know this always seems to take a while, but, well, what with being busy running around and being crazy 'cause it's summer, and my boyfriend and I breaking up, I just haven't really been in the mood to write. But, I suppose thinking about stupid, frustrating boys inspired me to finally finish this chapter, since Spot is so dumb sometimes. (We love him.)

Review:)

**_Panic! lyric:_** "It sure as hell ain't normal, but we deal." –_Camisado._

_Panic! concert Thursday, July 13!_


	5. Chapter 4

_(This is where my disclaimer goes.)_

_**Chapter 4**_

By nine-thirty that morning, I'd been home for three hours, and was growing restless. Surely whatever had come to fruition that morning had been over by seven-thirty at the absolute latest. Where in the name of timeliness was Sprint?

I knew that she was fully capable of getting back to Queens from Manhattan (a twelve-mile journey) in exactly eighty-four minutes (consistent seven-minute miles), as we'd tested her the previous summer—and it seemed she'd only gotten faster since then.

She should have been back by at least nine o'clock. So where was she? I was lying in the Atrium, our version of Brooklyn's Common Room, on a battered red velvet couch, my left arm thrown over my head, resting by my ear. A pillow was lying on my stomach, and, bored, I was lifting my legs into a ninety-degree angle, exercising my stomach muscles for no particular reason.

Bored. Bored and worried—not a nice, jolly combination.

I was in a _bitchy_ mood.

Panic, who had been sitting upon the front stoop, awaiting the return of Sprint, stepped through the doorway and stared at me. Completely unaffected by her sudden appearance, I continued my exercises.

"What are you _doing_." It wasn't even phrased as a question. Her voice sounded deadened, and carried a "you are so stupid right now" intonation.

"Waiting," I replied, my voice strained as I pulled my legs vertical once more, my pant legs sliding up to my thighs. When I'd arrived home that morning, I had immediately—well, no, after a quick wash—thrown on old charcoal grey pants that were way too big for me, a black belt that was dangerously close to tearing, and a long, fitted mint green long-john top. My feet were bare, and the straps of my bodice top were visible at the collar of the shirt.

Hey, I wasn't going anywhere. Leave me alone.

Panic sat down on the end of my couch when I next raised my legs, and I mercilessly swung them down onto her lap.

"Thank you," she said, giving me a half-smile.

"Anytime, Miss," I replied, sitting up and crossing my legs underneath me, facing her. "Is Sprint back?" I asked nervously, my imagination cooking up new, horrid things that could have taken place in Manhattan with every second that passed with no sight of Sprint.

"Not yet. She might have stopped to eat with Lady and Angel, Gleam. You need to calm down a little bit."

"I told her to come straight back! She should be here by now!" I exclaimed, and, as if on cue, the front door slammed in the near-distance and Panic looked up toward the doorway of the Atrium as I swung myself around to look. Sprint, red-faced and sweating through her burgundy blouse, entered the room and collapsed into the nearest chair, her breathing ragged and heavy.

"What happened?" I demanded.

She looked up at me, her cat-green eyes mildly annoyed. "Gimme a second, Gleam," she said shallowly, releasing her long, wispy blonde hair from its elastic, fluffing it, and lifting it back into the bun it had fallen out of. Everything about Sprint seemed wispy and thin—from her hair to her arms. But the girl was a rock—not a lick of fat on her.

On a hot night, when we were all ready to pass out from the heat, we all sometimes slipped all the way down to bodice tops we'd cut just under the breast and bloomer shorts we'd cut to the top of our thighs. There was no hiding anything in those get-ups. And let me tell you, that girl was solid muscle.

The bitch.

Like I said, I was not in a happy mood. Sprint was actually a lovely girl with a cute, pixie face. But at that moment, she looked like the devil, and only because she wasn't giving me the information I so desperately wanted.

"Okay," she said, once her breathing had returned to almost normal and Panic had fetched her a glass of icy water. I would have done that myself, but I felt paralyzed with fearful anticipation and wasn't entirely sure my legs worked at present.

"Okay…okay what? What happened?" I said impatiently.

Sprint chuckled a little at my impatience, but knew not to test me at this crucial juncture. "They was brilliant."

My heart unclenched and I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"I took the back streets, y'know, so I got there b'fore Brooklyn, and I saw the whole thing," she explained excitedly. "Y'know, for a second there it really looked like Jacky and his boys was gonna go down swingin'. The thugs Pulitzer had gotten was beatin' 'em pretty bad, and from where I was on the fire escape of the next buildin', I could see everythin'.

"Well, jus' when everythin' was lookin' grim, all the sudden I sees this head pop up from the ledge of the balcony on the Distribution Center buildin'. Nex' thing I know, every guy from Brooklyn is poppin' up from all over the place, firin' rocks at the thugs with them slingshots they's so good with.

"Then Spot grabs this cable and slides down to the ground while the other Brooklyn boys run down the fire escapes to get to the fight, and then they's just all punchin' and fightin' and…and…the thugs just kinda gave up after a while. And that reporter, that Denton, he took a picture of the boys for his paper. And they all looked like big goofs, but they was so happy it didn' really matter."

She finished her story and looked expectantly at Panic and me, eagerly awaiting our reactions to her breathtaking tale.

I began to laugh, my heart lighter than it had been since this whole strike business had started up, and Panic and Sprint both looked at me, then at each other, as though worried after my sanity.

I just laughed harder at the expressions on their faces, and bounced to my feet, seizing Panic's hand and pulling her with me to Sprint's chair. I yanked her to her feet and pulled them both into a group hug. When we broke apart, they began to laugh along with me; their faces alight with happiness, as I knew mine was.

Alerted by the noise the three of us were making, more girls wandered into the Atrium to investigate. Usually, when anyone was being loud in the morning—especially during a hard time—it was because some sort of bad news had reached our ears. As the girls weren't used to entering a loud room and being met with a giggling leader, second-in-command, and runner, they didn't really know how to react.

But Sprint, ever the talker, regaled them with her adventure in shouts, and they too soon caught the fever and began to celebrate with us.

As we broke out the Coca-Cola we had stashed in the ice box for special occasions, and a few girls ran down the street to buy fruits and breads and jam for a celebratory brunch, I fell back, grinning, onto the couch I'd previously vacated.

Wrecker, the smallest and youngest of the girls at seven, plopped down next to me, her frizzy, unkempt black hair a mane about her tanned little face. Her dark brown eyes, the hugest, doe-like eyes I'd ever seen, were even wider than usual as she looked imploringly up at me.

"Gleam," she began, her little voice excited but confused, "Why's everyone so happy?"

I beamed at her and pulled her to me, hugging her even though the morning heat had made us both sticky. "Because, Wrecker, the boys won the battle. We still have a war to fight, but they won this one, and now Pulitzer and his minions know we won't be stepped on or beaten so easily."

Though Wrecker nodded her little head and smiled her big smile, accepting a small cup of soda-pop from Prophet, I knew she hadn't really understood what I'd said.

As she sipped her drink, she looked thoughtful. "Gleam," she asked, "What are minions?"

At noon, when the heat had reached a boiling point, a construction worker on his lunch break used his monkey wrench to turn the knob on the fire hydrant down the street, and Hinder, flying into the Atrium from the sunny street, a giddy smile on her thirteen year-old face, gleefully told us the news.

Immediately, abandoning all pretense and dignity, every single solitary girl—from Wrecker at seven to Panic at seventeen—raced out the door and sprinted down the street—Sprint, not surprisingly, leading the way.

Ignoring the looks of scandalized shock on the mothers' faces and the leering eyes of the men, my gang of twenty-three girls ran right underneath the cold spray of water that floated, sparkling, to the ground.

Forgetting momentarily about secrecy and protection, forgetting that we were in our own kind of war with the "powers that be," forgetting that I was supposed to be the fearless leader, I acted like the five year-old I was at heart.

Even Panic had given up trying to be dignified and had entered the shower of water with the rest of us.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd had as much fun, dancing in circles with my girls without a care in the world.

When we were all soaked to the bone, we took it in turns to pull tricks like cartwheels and flips on the cobblestone. The bystanders began to laugh with us, and even the disapproving middle-aged women, off-put by this complete disregard of feminine docility, began to smile: our good cheer was infectious.

As I completed a back-handspring to claps and cheers, Sprint whacked me on the shoulder, and I turned in the direction she pointed, to a boy that stood, dirty and sweating, just outside the shower of water, down the street toward the Lodging House.

Spot.

I stepped out of the ring of water, running my hands through my soaked hair, sweeping it off my face. I was aware that my pants—oh _God_, I was wearing _pants_ in front of him!—were hanging off my hips, while my shirt was impossibly clingy.

I smiled brightly at him, watching how his eyes flickered from me to my girls, who were still dancing and pulling stunts in the spray of water. They settled on me, and I could see the question in them: "_What the hell are you doing?"_ they said.

"We're celebrating," I replied to his silent inquiry.

He cocked his head, looking amused. "Celebrating what?" he asked, looking at the girls again.

I turned just in time to see Sprint, her foot held by Oklahoma, place her hands on Oklahoma's shoulders and jump, throwing herself backward just as Oklahoma threw her foot into the air. As she landed her impossibly high back-flip, she raised her arms into the air and welcomed the cheers that met her landing.

I laughed and turned back to Spot, who was smiling in a bemused sort of way, his eyes still on my girls. I gazed at him for a few moments before he looked back at me.

"Celebrating what?" he repeated.

"You," I replied, then immediately felt my cheeks blaze. "I mean," I added hastily, "You and your boys and Jack's boys. And how you beat those thugs this morning."

For a moment, Spot looked disappointed. "I came t' tell ya. How'd ya find out?"

I gestured to Sprint. "The back-flip Queen over there was on the fire escape of the next building when it happened, and she ran back to tell us." I smiled at him. "We've been celebrating since nine forty-five this morning."

Spot allowed himself a small, smirking smile, but couldn't seem to stop himself from saying, "We's jus' gettin' started, Gleam. Don' be celebratin' too much jus' yet."

I scowled at him, then shook my head, smiling slightly. "Don't be such a grouch, Spot. We don't ever have very much to celebrate around here, you know." When he merely continued to look at me ever-so-seriously, I finished, "We know there's a lot more to do yet, and that this was just the opening battle. But…" I shrugged and looked back at the dancing girls behind me.

Panic and Prophet had formed a square with their arms and had lifted Wrecker onto it like a throne and were twirling her in circles under the water.

"Look at my girls. They're happy."

Spot smiled at me, his eyes uncharacteristically gentle. "You're a good leader, y'know, Gleam."

I smiled back at him, for some reason feeling tears spring to my eyes as my throat tightened. I took a deep breath, clearing up both, and said, "So are you, my friend."

Overtaken by my second Spot-related whim of the day, I bear-hugged him, soaking his clothes and rubbing my hair into his face as he struggled and sputtered, unable to keep the laugh out of his protests.

"Come play with us," I said as I released him, my voice strangely little-girl-ish.

He gave me a quelling look. "No," he said flatly. His expression clearly said that doing things such as playing in a fire hydrant's spray with a bunch of giggling girls was beneath him.

Suddenly noticing that the white undershirt he wore had been soaked through by my hug, I got another idea, one I was sure he'd like. I turned him around so he could see the front steps leading into the Lodging House and, gesturing to it, suggested, my voice no longer young and playful, but deep and evocative, "Wanna come inside and play with _me_?"

((end.))

_**End Notes**_

Wow! I know this took forever too! But, well, hey…it's the summer before senior year, and…I've been busy playing drinking games with friends. Hahaha. Oh, geez.

Sorry, kids, the Panic! concert is a month-plus past, and so…the lyrics hidden in the chapters are no more. The concert was ridiculously awesome, by the way—mosh-pit for three and a half hours—my god, I almost died. Haha, but it was awesome.

So! Reviews, my loves, and thanks sooo much to those of you who already have. And hey! Friend me on My Space.

For some reason, they won't let me type the site here, so just type it, with a slash after the .com, then type iglimmer.The name has one of those little...Well, if you hit shift then the "dash" key, it'll do it. Between the "i" and the "glimmer".

It's really not that complicated. FFN just is.

Because it will be cool. And drop me a note telling me who you are so I don't DENY you!

LOVES!

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Bottom of Form


	6. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

The next morning, Spot awoke early, around five, and left for Manhattan. Unable to keep myself from the middle of the action any longer, I persuaded Panic to come along and we followed at ten-thirty. We arrived at just past noon, right on time to catch the boys at Tibby's for lunch.

We had each dressed carefully that morning, wanting to look our best—attempting to pass for seamstresses or nannies on their lunch break. We had cleaned the smudges from our hands and faces and brushed our hair. We did the best we could to give every impression that we were ladies with real homes—not newsgirls with a lodging house.

I hadn't told Spot of our plan to enter into Manhattan to catch some of the goings-on, and I wasn't entirely sure what his reaction would be when we entered the restaurant, and I did so—entered, I mean—with feelings of excited trepidation.

The boys were already congregated there when we arrived, and Spot, to his credit, did not give a single thing away once he caught sight of Panic and me. His eyes flashed just slightly in our direction, and he shot me a small, brief, nearly unnoticeable quizzical look. I smiled sweetly at him and sat with Panic at a table in the corner—in an unobtrusive area, away from the boys—a table with a great view of what was happening.

Now, despite our best intentions, I knew we'd be hard-pressed to simply _blend in_ in a restaurant teeming with teenage boys, as they seem to have this incredible radar that just hones in on the estrogen in our bodies, making us blatantly visible in the moments we wish to be _in_visible.

Immediately, Mush was at our table, holding a small glass of Coca-Cola and smiling down at us with that top-toothed grin we girls had talked to the ground. I could see the outlines of his muscles through his shirt—another feature we'd giggled and swooned over until the wee hours of the morning.

"Hey ladies," he said smoothly, without a trace of awkwardness or embarrassment. I smiled softly, politely, back at him, and studied Panic across the table. Her cheeks had flushed immediately in response to the sound of his voice, and now she was beaming up at him, apparently at a loss for words.

Panic Kowalski had been in love with Mush Meyers for as long as I could remember. Ever since the first time she'd been out to do some reconnaissance work, she'd been utterly smitten with the tanned boy—for that's what he'd been back then, a little boy—of eleven, who had smiled at her as she bought a pape from him. I can still remember her expression that night as she told me about the Manhattan newsy she'd seen that afternoon.

We were eleven also, and though she'd been at the Queens lodging house for five years, I had only been a boarder for six weeks. Kassidy Rae Kowalski had befriended me immediately, and had even been the one to bestow my newsy name upon me.

The night she came back from spying, she related to me, in great detail, a dreamy look upon her round face, that she had seen the most beautiful boy in the world.

"He's perfect, Gleam," she sighed, her voice small and little girlish. She launched into an in-depth physical description of him, her voice still full of wistful languor, as though she'd be content never to move from her lying position on my bed for the rest of her days, so long as she could hold the image of his face in her mind.

Then she seemed to come down from whichever heavenly place her memory had taken her to. She looked into my preteen eyes with her own and said, her voice steadier and more grown-up than I'd ever heard it, and said firmly, with no trace of doubt, "I'm gonna marry him one day, Lydia."

I still get chills each time I think of that—of the way her voice carried not one shred of hesitance, not one bit of uncertainty.

She hasn't called me Lydia since that day, and I've long since been under the impression that she's saving it for the next time she tells me something earth-shatteringly significant.

Jack Kelly's voice brought me out of my reverie and crashing back to the present.

"Don' think I'se ever seen you girls in here before," it said, and I looked up into that smooth, dewily-complected, handsome face that admittedly did nothing for me.

_Why was that?_

Spot appeared at Jack's side, putting the Cowboy in the middle of himself and Mush. My heart skipped a beat at his manifestation.

_Oh. Yeah. _

"Hello ladies," he said, his voice casual and quite normal, though I picked up on a warning undertone I'm almost certain no one else heard.

"Hello," I replied softly, using the voice I almost never used in front of him. It was my coy, I-don't-know-you voice…and I certainly knew Spot Conlon.

"What brings you here?" he asked nonchalantly, his tone giving the notion that he was using a kind of mild pickup line. But he didn't fool me. I knew that what he really meant was _God dammit, Gleam, what the fuck are you doing!_

I looked up at him, into his clear, blue-green eyes. As our gazes met and locked, he couldn't seem to keep the fearful anger out of them, and I realized, with a jolt, that he was afraid for me.

It had never occurred to me that Spot cared as much as I did that Queens' secret _stayed_ secret. That it mattered to him that my girls were safe.

My mind clicked and found the source of his anger. He was afraid we'd give ourselves away somehow, and everything we'd done to protect our secret would be for nothing.

"We heard about what you boys are doing," I said slowly, still looking carefully up at him, "And we wanted to investigate it for ourselves." I paused. "It's all the girls are talking about." Very true. "We're proud of you boys."

_I'm proud of you, Spot_, I tried to tell him silently.

All the sudden, the door jingled open and a man entered. Immediately, Jack and Mush turned and followed in his wake to the table where most of the boys congregated. Spot stayed, looking down at me, his expression unreadable.

"Hey fellas!" the man said, "Hey, hey! Big time!" He held a newspaper in his hand, and I caught the title of the paper before he slammed in on the table. The New York Sun, it read. This must be the reporter Spot had rambled on about the night before, Bryan Denton.

Jack, standing right in front of the paper as it lay on the table, looked down at it.

Boots popped up at his shoulder and looked down at it as well, jostled by the other boys clamoring to see. "What you got there, Jack?" he asked excitedly.

Spot, who had abandoned our table moments before, shoved his way through the boys and past Boots, peering at the pape and asking, "Where's me picture? Where's me picture?" I smiled at the naked excitement in his voice, and I surmised enough to guess that the photo Spot had told me Denton had taken was on the page above the article about the strike.

"What's that?" Boots, clearly unable to decipher the words on the page, hopped up and down, trying to see the picture. "That all about us?"

Mush, laughing as he spoke, jabbed at the pape with his index finger and said, "Look at that, Jack! Y'look like a gentleman!

"Will you getcha fingers off me face?" Jack snapped, shooing Mush's hand away with a wave of his own.

"Well, where does it say my name? Where's my name?" Spot demanded impatiently, knocking Jack with his shoulder, and, though his back was to us, I could imagine his concentrated expression as he scanned the article, searching for mention of himself.

"Will ya quit thinkin' about y'self?" Jack shot back, sounding mildly annoyed.

A new boy, one I'd never seen and hadn't noticed until this moment, piped up, looking at Denton appreciatively. "You got us on the front page!" His smooth voice carried an educated confidence none of the other boys possessed, and from his clean clothing and manicured appearance, I pegged this new boy as one David Jacobs.

"You got _yourselves_ on the front page," Denton countered, beaming at them all. I liked him immediately.

Skittery, standing in between Mush and Racetrack, the sleeves of his faded red, now pink, undershirt rolled to almost his elbows, one hand on the table, shifted his weight and said, to nobody in particular, addressing the whole group with his mouth in a kind of determinedly pessimistic smirk, "So, y'getcha picture in the papes, so what's that getcha, huh?"

There was an instant uproar at his words, Mush and Jack's voice prevailing as they exclaimed, respectively, "Whaddya talkin' about!" and "Shut up, boy, you been in a bad mood all day!"

Skittery shot a glare in Jack's direction and shot back, "I'm not in a bad mood—!" He seemed ready to go on in his own defense, but Race, rolling his eyes at what I could only assume he saw as Skittery's stupidity, boomed, "Hey!"

And as his open palm connected with Skittery's face and pushed it sideways, almost into Mush's, he continued, "Dumb and glum! What's a matter with you? Y'getcha picture in the papes, y'famous! Y'famous, you get anything you want!"

He left Skittery's side and, like a man on a mission, made his way to the opposite end of the table, across from Jack. He slammed his hand down onto the table, finishing dramatically, "That's what so great about New York!"

Almost on cue, each boy in turn shared with the rest what he'd want if he could have anything. Mush's new shoes, Race's box at the races (ironically enough).

I didn't miss the suggestive look Spot shot directly into my eyes after he announced boldly that he wanted nothing more than a "porcelain tub with boiling water."

_Oh, I will most definitely join you in that tub, my friend._

I needed to get a grip.

Race, losing his head completely, proclaimed first himself, and then Bryan Denton, King of New York.

Laughing, the other boys called out their agreement, and as they broke into babbling conversation on the article and what was to happen next, Jack asking for ideas from the boys, Bill, the owner wheeled a tray of drinks into the midst of them.

As each boy seized a glass, some of the handing them back to the newsies standing on chairs, Jack spoke. Panic and I, straining to hear, caught his words as we looked at the backs of the boys.

'There's a lot of us," he began, "And we ain' goin' away. He paused. "We'll fight until damn Doomsday if it means we'll get a fair shake."

For the first time ever, I realized that perhaps Jack Kelly wasn't as stupid as he looked.

Over the assenting murmurs of the other boys, I heard David's voice break through the fray. "Hey guys. To our man Denton."

And as they toasted Bryan Denton, Panic and I both laughed, noticing at the same time that Mush and Blink, short a glass, raised the same one, laughing as they toasted, looking sideways at one another.

That small, personal detail seemed to make the entire happy scene even better, and, for some strange reason, as Panic and I looked at each other, both giggling, we broke into helpless laughter, through which I managed to choke out, "It's not even that funny!

"I know!" she exclaimed, still cackling.

"Good moods?" a soft voice asked, breaking into our private joke. I looked up into Spot's face. I couldn't tell from his expression alone whether he was mad at me for coming or not.

"Yes," I replied simply.

"Come with me, Gleam," he said in a low voice, casting a furtive look around the restaurant.

"Do you want to be sneaky about this, Spot? I could go first and hide in an alley. You could follow in a few minutes," I shot at him, annoyed at the way he seemed to be nervous about talking to me in public. "It's not like it's all that unusual for the big man of Brooklyn to leave with a girl," I added venomously, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone.

"Just come on," he said flatly, turning away and making for the door.

I stood and made to follow, but Panic seized hold of my left forearm as I passed her. "Gleam," she began, her voice a warning, "Don't…"

"Antagonize him?" I supplied when she couldn't seem to conjure up a word.

"I don't know what that means, Gleam, but don' piss 'im off. Y'hear?"

"Yeah, yeah," I called back to her, sliding from her grasp and following Spot out the door and into the hot sunshine.

He was loitering just to the left of the door, and the moment it clanged shut behind me, he grabbed my arm roughly, pulling me along to walk with him.

"You shouldn't grab a lady like that, Spot. People may think your intentions are impure," I said innocently, very carefully avoiding eye contact with him.

He groaned in a very irritated way, but let go of me all the same. "Will you just walk with me, then?" he demanded, and, not waiting for my reply, barreled on, "What were you _thinking_, Gleam? Why are you here?"

I couldn't stop myself from issuing a short, annoyed breath. I rolled my eyes and smiled at him in a 'you are so dumb' way. "Well, we weren't planning on _talking_ to anyone or letting on that we were anything other than working-class young ladies at lunch." I paused and shot him a look I knew would remind him of his mother. "It's not _my_ fault you made this into an issue when it didn't have to be one."

He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. "No, Spot. It's not my fault that you make everything so _com_plicated! All you had to do was ignore us. Ignore me."

Even as I said it, I knew, somewhere deep down inside my chest, that if he had done just that, that though it would have been the smart sensible thing to do, I would have felt slighted and…unspecial (I _know_ it's both _not_ a word _and_ pathetic—shut it).

I sighed to myself, admitting silently that, though I was exasperated with his overbearing behavior, that I depended on it—loved it, even.

"Look, Spot. I…" I didn't know what to say. I glanced at him for the first time in over a minute. He was staring intently at me, as though trying to read my thoughts.

"Y'know y'shouldn't o' put y'self and Panic right in the middle of all this, and y'know that with your luck there'll be consequences."

I couldn't suppress a disbelieving laugh. I pulled him to a stop and turned to face him, only vaguely aware that were in the middle of the sidewalk. "Consequences? Okay, I know it was a bit stupid to come here in the first place, but what in the hell kind of _consequences_ could there possibly be to this? No one knows who we are. We can just go home and they'll all forget they ever saw us. Panic and I don't spy in other boroughs anymore—not since I became leader."

I looked down at my shoes. "We don't have any reason to ever be back here, anyway."

"That's right," Spot agreed firmly, and I couldn't help noticing that he was actually scolding me, "Now, you just go back in there, get Panic, and go on home."

I gaped at him for what felt like an eternity before realizing that there was nothing else to be done. He'd only have _kittens_ if I denied him now, and I didn't need to get myself on Spot Conlon's bad side.

"Fine," I said with as much dignity as I could muster, and I turned on my heel, stalking back to Tibby's with him a few strides behind me..

I reentered the restaurant and was shocked out of my skin to find Panic in the very heart of the gaggle of boys still there.

She was beaming in a way I'd never seen, and suddenly—all too suddenly for my liking—she morphed out of the motherly woman she usually portrayed and into the seventeen year-old girl she really was.

It was uncomfortably disconcerting, really, and I didn't like it one bit.

She beckoned me over, and I obeyed, feeling anxious, knowing that Spot's watchful eyes were on my back.

"The boys have invited us to Brooklyn tonight! For a real Brooklyn bash!"

My heart froze, and I just barely resisted the urge to turn to Spot. _How the hell could he be right all the goddamn time?_

"Yeah, I mean, if it's okay with you, Spot!" Blink called to Spot, grinning happily. "She said she could bring some o' her other friends—" he shot a glance in my direction, "—And you seem t' really like this one already!"

The other boys joined in a good-natured laugh, and I forced myself to smile bashfully. I chanced a seething glare in Panic's direction while the boys were still distracted.

She shot me a helpless look from where she stood, at Mush's side, and everything slid into place. Of course. Panic had loved him for six years. She had never been surer of anything else in her whole life, and she would stop at nothing to get near to him.

I considered it for a moment. All our girls were good actresses. They pretended to be what they weren't every single day. If we all worked together, we could pull off a Brooklyn bash no problem. And maybe we could even have a little not-so-good, not-so-clean fun while we were at it.

I smiled at her, nodding just slightly, and she returned it with a wide, beaming grin.

I looked over at Spot, who was standing stock-still at the edge of the group. "What d'you think—Spot?—was it?" I asked. "Can we come?"

To my amazement, Spot regarded me for just a moment before smirking and nodding.

As the boys cheered and Jack immediately began writing us directions to the Brooklyn lodging house that we didn't need, I walked over to Spot under the pretense of heading for the door.

I gave him a look that clearly asked, _why_?

He licked his lips and grazed my left arm with his fingertips as I passed, "Because maybe tonight I can hear your real name for the first time."

I don't know why, and it was probably my imagination working overtime, but that sounded a lot like "because I love you" to me.

((end.))

_**End Notes**_

Alright! I apologize for the confusion that the whole "end" thing caused…But I usually put it at the end of all my chapters. Hahaha, sorry. This story is FAR from over, kids, don't you fret!

LOVE! Review!


	7. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6 **_

Late that afternoon, as Panic and I, along with three selected girls, got ready for Brooklyn's bash, I couldn't help feeling nervous. And it wasn't a nervous-excited feeling, either. It was an I-think-I'm-gonna-throw-up-I-wanna-go-home feeling.

Maybe it was simply the fact that if we slipped up tonight, we could blow everything. But I doubted that, somehow. I had a sneaking feeling it was something more, something deeper.

I'd never been anyone but Gleam around Spot. Tough, in-charge, distant when I wanted to be. He'd seen me in throes of passion, yes, but he'd never seen me being…well, me. He'd caught a brief glimpse of it the previous afternoon when he'd caught me frolicking in the water, but it was small and came to an abrupt end as soon as I saw him.

I was terrified that he wouldn't like who I was when I wasn't fulfilling my duties as Queens' fearless leader. When I wasn't Gleam. When I was just…Lydia. I was also horrified each time I imagined what could potentially come out of my mouth after a few cheap drinks. I lose my head a little when I'm drunk. I resolved, firmly and emphatically, to watch my alcohol intake carefully that night.

As the girls came into my bedroom one by one to show off their hair and outfits, I began to grin a little, feeling a kind of mischievous excitement pervade into my apprehension. I'd hand-picked the prettiest girls to come along with Panic and me.

Angel, of course, the girl all the Manhattan newsies stared as she walked by them, her curly dark hair gleaming (sorry).

Lady, Angel's almost constant companion and best friend. The two were nearly polar opposites of one another. Angel is dark-haired and bronzed, while Lady has almost white-blonde hair and porcelain skin. Angel's eyes are a deep blue, while Lady's are the lightest mint green.

Completing the group was Mugger, who looked tough and almost rugged under normal circumstances, but was truly one of the most beautiful girls in lodging house—don't tell Angel.

Her fiery red hair was clean and curled into a loose, elegant bun at the nap of her neck, wispy curls framing her heart-shaped face. Her vivid green eyes were sparkling with anticipation, as were everyone's.

"So girls," I began, starting to feel their high spirits rub off onto me, "Tonight, we are not rough, tough newsgirls from Queens. Tonight, we get to just be…" I smiled, "Girls."

I paused and looked each one of the girls over. "Which means that we can't go by our nicknames tonight." I looked to Panic. "You, my dear, will get to just be Kassidy tonight. I am Lydia. You, Angel, are Sophie, and Lady, you are just Mandy. Mugger, you, get to be nothing more than Ginny. We are just who our parents named us to be. We are innocent, and playful, and coy and flirtatious…" I paused, smirking, "And, after a few drinks, we are forward and daring."

The girls all laughed, casting one another knowing looks. I had the feeling all of us would go to bed happy and satisfied that night. It was a good feeling.

Once we reached Brooklyn, however, I was losing my feelings of exhilaration and defaulting back to being scared out of my wits and wanting to strangle Panic—Kassidy—for getting us into this.

I knocked on the door I'd walked through many times, knowing that whoever opened the door, if he was from Brooklyn, would recognize me. Sure enough, Brandy pulled open the door, Water at his shoulder. They grinned shiftily at me, murmuring "Miss" before gawking at my girls, their eyes lighting up.

"Boys," I said, opening the door further and walking past them into the house. I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I entered the Common Room. Oh, I expected the table of cheap liquor, the mountains of cups, the poker table, and the many, many boys. What I hadn't counted on was the multitude of sleazy girls—or, namely, the greasy little blonde sitting on Spot's lap.

My chest clenched and I almost felt like I was about to faint. Almost. I pulled myself together at record speed and approached the couch where they sat. She was smiling at him, batting her short eyelashes. I noticed right away the pockmarks on her cheek and the crooked nature of her teeth.

How could he be enjoying _that_?

But as I looked closer, I noticed a look I'd seen Spot give his boys sometimes, when they were telling him something he didn't feel the need to listen to. His eyes were slightly glazed, and though it appeared that he was looking into her eyes, I could tell that he was really zoning out, staring at her forehead.

I walked past the couch, catching a snip of what she was saying: "I jus' been waitin' too long t' get t' come t' one o' these, but I—" I bumped her as I passed, bringing her atrociously annoying voice to an abrupt stop. She turned quickly. "'Scuse me!?" She said loudly, standing, immediately in my face.

I smirked and glanced at Spot, who was staring at me with a mixture of awe at my presence (sorry, we're deeply attracted to one another, what can I say?) and, I think, shock that I'd actually showed.

"Oh," I said to the girl, my eyes widening innocently. "You're excused honey. Thank you so much for getting yourself up off of Spot."

She glared at me, confusion behind her dim eyes. "You see," I continued casually, as though speaking about the weather, "Now that you're not on top of him, I can do this:"

And I bent over Spot and, in a rare display of bold affection, kissed him softly and lingeringly on the lips. His hand went automatically to my face, as it always did. When I pulled away, his eyes were soft and almost drowsy, as though my lips had more affectively liquored him up than any of the cheap vodka he'd already consumed.

"You coming?" I asked, holding out my hand to him, ready to introduce him to my girls and mingle with his and Jack's boys.

"I…yeah…" he mumbled, grasping my hand briefly to stand up. He released it immediately, and I frowned, feeling a bit put-out. But, I rationalized, he had abandoned Slutty McWhore for me.

Can't complain.

We made our way over to the table of cheap liquor where my girls and their newly-found tag-along men for the night had congregated. I was pleased to see that Panic—excuse me, Cassidy—and Mush were standing a teensy but too close to be an accident, shooting sidelong glances at one another.

Angel (Sophie) and Lady (Mandy) had, unsurprisingly, snagged Skittery and Blink, respectively. I smirked in their directions—as our scouts in Manhattan, those two had suffered through hard crushes on those boys for years. I could almost feel their excitement at being near enough to touch them after so long. The boys looked no less ecstatic.

Mugger (Ginny) was standing a short distance away from Water, a tall, muscular blonde with classic American good looks. His blue eyes were shooting furtive glances at Ginny, his eyes lingering on her red hair. I laughed to myself, knowing from my many trips to Brooklyn that Water always favored the redheads.

He'd have his hands full with Ginny.

As Spot and I reached the group, Jack ambled over to us, his eyes sweeping over me and my girls, looking satisfied with us. _So_ glad I could please him. Sarcasm.

"Spot," he began, clearly wanting to talk business. It was at that moment that I noticed David standing behind him. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I was shocked to find that I wanted to make him feel more at home. I shot him a small smile, and he grinned shiftily back, knowing, somehow, that I knew what he was feeling.

Spot did not miss the look that passed between David and me. Scowling at me briefly before blocking David from my sight, he turned to Jack.

"Hey, yo, Cowboy, I ain't lookin' to talk business tonight. Let's worry about this strike stuff tomorrow."

"But Spot—" Jack started, clearly wanting to keep on track.

Spot cut across him with a wave of his hand. "Take your Walkin' Mouth and go find yourself a girl like the rest of us."

At that, David turned and walked away, giving up Spot as a bad job. Jack, however, seemed to want to uphold his new sense of leadership, and remained.

"I'm not interested in no girls tonight, Spot. We need t' figure out what we're gonna do here. We need a damned plan."

"'Not interested in no girls' eh? Why? That homely sister of Dave's gotcha all hot and bothered?" Spot shot back, completely disregarding Jack's last comments.

At that, Jack looked livid and turned on his heel, stalking away. I looked to my girls, all of whom were smirking. We'd had a long bashing session the previous night, the topic being David's sister, who was somewhat larger than was normal, and not all that good-looking. What really got us, though, was how dumb and out of place she seemed around the boys.

I'm no huge fan of Jack Kelly's myself, but I'm not so blinded by my…ahem…_affection_ for Spot that I can't recognize that Jack is a good-looking young man. Certainly much too attractive for _that_.

I think he's drawn in by the admiration and the fawning she seems to give him.

_Men._

Anywho, that's enough tangents and ramblings. Back to the action.

After Jack left us alone, our little party truly began. In no time at all, our group was sitting around a table, drinking and play five-card draw like pros. The boys were, to say the least, surprised that we knew what we were doing. They smirked more than their fair share when we all sat down, but we managed to simultaneously swipe the grins off their faces and clean out their money.

All through the games and the drinking, Spot sat next to me, sitting just a tad close than was necessary, occasionally brushing my hand with his own, or leaning into me for just a touch too long. I'm ashamed to say that it left me breathless. I felt like such a horrid cliché, as if the clothes and my real name left me emotionally naked, only able to be myself, only capable of feeling my true emotions as they really were, uninhibited by my duties as leader.

No one had yet said my name. I wasn't surprised. I had told the girls about what Spot had said about being able to finally learn my real name, as I'd never told him mine and he had, in an attempt to bribe me into letting it out, told me his. Seth. I'd never really thought much about liking or disliking names before I'd known his. Now Seth was just about the most gorgeous name I'd ever heard of.

Jesus. I am in so fucking deep it's not even the least bit funny anymore.

_Get a grip._

Somewhere along my way to Buzzed-town, I realized that, though Spot continued to raise his glass of beer to his lips, the level wasn't really depleting at all. Curious, I stared at him until he noticed my gaze.

"What?" he muttered, shielding his cards from me as he leaned over.

"You're not drinking," I pointed out, nodding at his glass.

"I don't like feeling drunk," he replied, looking slightly abashed. I, however, smiled knowingly. "What?!" he said again, slightly louder this time.

"Nothing, it just makes sense that Seth Conlon wouldn't be one of those people who'd drink enough to lose control of anything—himself or the situation."

He looked at me carefully at that, contemplating me. "What," I began, smirking at him in a way I hoped made him feel like his smirks made _me_ feel (probably failed), "Surprised that I know you better than you think?"

"No," he shot back, smirking at me in a way that didn't really come up to snuff with his usual smirks—it was sad, almost—"S'prised that you called me 'Seth'."

Now, I hadn't even realized (as I said, I was buzzed) that I'd called him Seth instead of Spot, and I gaped stupidly at him for a second too long to be smooth before recovering.

"Yeah, well…" I said, impressive in my delivery as usual (sarcasm), and turned back to the game, which Spot won, looking very pleased with himself—almost too pleased to just be gloating about the game—and I lost spectacularly, as I was so confused by his reaction that I couldn't concentrate.

A few hands later, I got up from the table, as the urge to relieve myself of the heinous amount of liquid building up in my bladder had gotten the best of me, and announced that I was going to visit the washroom.

I kind of yelled it.

Let me add that I stopped drinking after that.

I was sitting in one of the stalls, doing my thing, when I heard two boys walk into the washroom.

I didn't recognize their voices, so I knew they must've been Brooklyn boys whom I'd never spoken to.

"So, Spot seems pretty taken w' that girl tonight," one of them said, laughter in his voice.

"Yeah," the other replied, snickering, "Funny, since her night is usually Thursday, and it's Friday."

"Yeah, but did'ja see her stroll in here and chuck Friday off his lap?" the other replied, still laughing, "She ain't gonna be happy about that."

"Well, Wednesday is already mad 'cause when she came that night, he was out on the docks with Thursday."

"Looks like Spot's lookin' to make every day a Thursday," the boy finished, and they both left, laughing uproariously.

I was still sitting in the stall, my insides hard inside me, my heart hammering in my chest. I felt my face getting hot with humiliation and anger.

So Spot Conlon had a girl for each day of the week, did he? And I was—I swallowed hard, feeling slightly nauseous from something that had nothing to do with cheap beer—_Thursday_.

I headed back downstairs, feeling numbed to the bone. I knew my face was probably registering my shock, but I couldn't do anything to hide it.

I had somehow, in an impressive display of stupidity, assumed that, since I was only "with" Spot, that I was his "only one."

I laughed bitterly as I stepped off the last stair, telling myself that I shouldn't have been so blind as to actually think that Spot Conlon, womanizer of Brooklyn, would actually settle down with _me._

As I reentered the poker room and took my seat at the table, I moved my chair as close to Ginny as I possibly could—and as far away from Spot as I could manage.

My stony glare and obvious separation from him did not go unnoticed by Spot. He looked over at me, searching my face for an answer, but I refused to look at him.

Somehow, I'd become the kind of girl who was on the verge of sobbing over some stupid boy. I couldn't believe it. I honestly couldn't—but I knew that if I took one glance at Spot, I would start bawling right in the middle of his party.

We passed the rest of the night normally enough—well, that is to say, I talked to everyone but Spot, and Spot spent the rest of the night getting exponentially more confused.

But the time the part wound down around two AM, Spot led me up to his room as usual—and I let him.

And as angry as I was at him, I'm utterly ashamed to say that I didn't stop him when he put his hands on me and made love to me. His lovemaking was different tonight—more caressing, less grabbing; more kissing, less biting; slower, deeper, more intimate, somehow.

But I couldn't get over what I'd heard. Somehow, I'd deluded myself that I was special to him, that over the past year, I'd come to mean something to him.

After he'd finished, he pulled back to look into my face. "What is wrong with you Gleam?" he asked, anger just underneath the confusion in his voice.

"Nothing," I replied stubbornly, in a voice that loudly proclaimed, "Everything."

"You can't bullshit a bullshitter, Gleam, so—"

"You're right!" I burst out, suddenly more angry than hurt, "I can't. Because _you,_ Seth 'Spot' Conlon, are the _biggest _bullshitter in the entire known world. And I can't fucking _believe_ I ever thought I was more than just a…a sex toy to you."

"Gleam, what're you talkin'—"

"Just call me Thursday, Spot," I whispered, rolling away from him and shutting my eyes against the tears that had finally come.

end.

_**(AN)**_

I know this chapter took…well…an unbelievable amount of time, but I have been so busy with, well, life, that this kind of went on the backburner for…oh, 13 months.

But I hope I still have some readers left for this story, 'cause I'm slowly getting back into it, so let me know what you think!!!

L'n'MP,

Glimm


	8. Update!

Alright, guys, I know it's been an unforgivably long time since I updated this story. Honestly, I've just been so busy…I had a beautiful son on March 1, 2009...he's gorgeous and sweet and smart and funny and extremely demanding. But I suppose that's fitting since his name is Conlon. Yes, kids, I named my son Conlon. J Now what is that but long-term dedication? Anyway, I read this story over today and am feeling inspired, so I'm planning to start working on it again. I just recently went back to work after having my son, but I'm only working part-time so I should be able to actually keep at it. I just wanted to give any readers a heads-up that this story will be continuing.

Thanks for reading! L'n'MP,

Glimmer Conlon O'Leary

October 29, 2010


	9. Chapter 7

The next morning, I woke before Spot, my head throbbing and my mouth as dry as if I'd eaten sand all night. I groaned much more softly than I wanted to, trying my best not to wake him. The thought of waking him and having to look into his face, hear his voice, see those eyes staring me down-it made my stomach churn in a way that had much more to do with dread and angst than it did with the booze I'd drunk the night before.

I slipped out of the bed, dressed as silently as possible, and slipped out the door, heading to the empty washroom to splash my face and gulp as much water as I could. Oh, God…I needed coffee so badly I wanted to weep. Well, if we're being honest here, I wanted to weep for many more reasons than just a serious lack of caffeine.

My ears rung with what I'd learned the night before. A girl for every night of the damned week. I should have known. I should have known, but I was too stupid and naïve to think it. Although, come on Gleam…we're being honest here, remember? I'd be lying if I said it never once crossed my mind that with all those girls there almost every night, that Spot might be sleeping with one or many of them. But somehow, whenever such a thought flitted into my brain, I swiped it away, refusing to acknowledge that rather than being a paranoid concept, it was intuition. Deep down somewhere in my brain, or my heart, or maybe even just in my soul, if you believe in that kind of thing, I knew that it was impossible for me to be his only one.

Only one. Even thinking it sounds unforgivably stupid. It's so sappy, it makes me want to cringe. But in the name of honesty, since that, apparently, is all my brain has the energy for when it's hungover, I wanted it to be possible. Somehow, the hope had sprung into my heart that maybe, just maybe, I'd become more to him than just a deal. More than just a bribe to keep my girls safe.

But in the darkness of the predawn, it was all becoming so clear. My fuzzy brain had cut through all the bullshit, all the emotions that had gotten in the way of what was right in front of my face, and there it was: the truth. Spot Conlon was a bullshitter. He'd said it himself the night before. He could have sex with a girl, talk to her, make her feel like the only one in the room. He could make her think he loved her. And then, the next day, he could do the same thing with a completely different girl.

As I dried my face with a mildewed towel (which did not help the queasy feeling in my stomach, I might add) an image came unbidden into my mind: The greasy blonde-Friday-and the way Spot's eyes had looked glazed as he very obviously pretended to listen to her. He never did that to me, I was sure of it.

Well, so fucking what? I pushed the thought away as I'd done to all the warning signs in the past. So she was stupid and boring and I was smart and engaging (and modest, clearly). So he paid attention to the things I said? And? He still slept with every other girl on the damn planet-or at least, 6 other girls on the planet.

I tiptoed back to Spot's room to collect my boots, kicking myself for letting him have sex with me, for liking it, and for staying when I should have stormed out. I chose to blame it on the alcohol, deciding to cut myself some slack for my less-than-stellar decision-making abilities.

As I bent to pick up my shoes, I didn't see Spot sit up in bed. Therefore, when I straightened and looked up to see him staring at me, his face pinched and his eyes narrowed, my heart leapt in my chest like a frightened cat. His golden brown hair was sticking up one side and flattened on the other, making him look, incongruously with his expression, like a small child.

I gazed back at him, keeping my face impassive, which was no easy feat considering my heart was still hammering in my chest, my head was aching, and my throat was tightening in that all-too-annoying way it does right before I start to cry.

I could not, would not, cry over him. Oh, who am I kidding? I would most definitely cry over him, but I sure as hell wouldn't do it in front of him.

Our eyes locked on one another's for an impossibly long ten seconds before he cleared his throat and glanced down briefly at the shoes in my hand. His eyes flicked back up to my face, and when they met mine, my heart gave a hard thump in response. My own body was betraying me. All I wanted was to hate him, to punch his stupid beautiful face in, and here my heart was pounding and my lady parts were positively humming for him.

"I'm leaving," I said, my voice shaking only slightly, for which I was proud, considering the size of the lump in my throat. "I'll see you Thursday, as per our agreement."

I meant to leave then, to walk out in my stocking feet and put my shoes on on the stoop, but before I got out the door, Spot was behind me, holding onto my arm with a much more gentle grip than I could have expected.

"Gleam…" He didn't seem to know what else to say. Well, that was fine. Nothing he could say could change anything.

I turned then, staring straight into his blue-green eyes that looked so much like my own, and I'm happy to say that my eyes, near twins of his, did not fill with tears, much as they longed to.

His eyes, though, they were different today. Gone was the arrogance, the cocky swagger. His lips held no trace of his trademark smirk. They were pursed ever so slightly, and his eyes, those beautiful eyes, were full of regret.

That shook me to my core, that look in his eyes, and my body yearned to throw itself into his arms. I felt my muscles tense slightly in preparation for said flinging, but I took a steadying breath and forced my wayward body to behave. Now was no time for tears or for flying into the arms of the boy who'd broken me.

"Gleam." he said again, and this time his voice was stronger, "I don' know what you heard las' night, but…"

Here it was. The denial. I realized I'd been expecting this. Here was where he denied any wrongdoing. Here was where he told me it was nothing, it was all lies, all rumor.

I cut him off before he could continue, anger and indignation swelling in my chest, dispelling the sadness that choked my throat. "I heard the truth, Spot. And I don't know why I expected anything different from you. I knew who you were when I signed on for this. I was warned about you, and somehow I convinced myself it wasn't true." I yanked away from him and stepped back. When he looked as though he wanted to argue, I continued, "Look, Spot. What we have is nothing more than an agreement. I have sex with you so that you don't blow my secret out of the water. Period. I was stupid to try and make it more than that.

"We're not friends, we're not partners, and we're certainly not in anything remotely resembling a relationship. For all rights and purposes, I'm your employee. I provide a service to you in exchange for payment. Basically, I'm nothing more than your whore. The only difference between me and those girls from last night is that I do it to protect my family, which I guess I can tell myself makes it better."

I was ranting, I knew. My voice was hard, much like my mother's used to be when she was lecturing my father for one thing or another. My words were coming faster and faster, and I couldn't seem to stop them.

Spot took my tirade in silence, though his eyes, before so soft and warm, turned icy and cold. His entire body stiffened, and he straightened his spine in what I could only assume was anger.

He drew in a deep breath. "You're right. This is all jus' some agreement two people came up with before we was even born. You don't mean anything to me." He spit out the last sentence, and though I had basically said more or less the same thing moments before, it hit me like icy water on a winter's day, leaving me breathless and gasping.

Without warning, my body stiffened and my spine straightened all on its own, and I realized, with a jolt, that hurt was what had done it us both, not anger.

Spot was on a roll, now. "I have friends. I have women who don' force me to do nothin' for 'em except show 'em a good time. You and ya girls make all these damn demands and I'm s'posed to keep all of you safe, and I do it 'cause it's part o' my job. But that's all you are, Gleam. A fucking job."

I shook my head, rage overshadowing the small slice of reason that had just edged its way in. "So that's why your boys think you want to make 'every day Thursday,' then, huh? That's why you had sex with me in the water and on the dock, and then slept with me in your bed because it was too dark for me to go home? That's why you came to Queens yourself to tell me the news about the fight, and then stayed to have sex with me when you apparently had another girl waiting for you in Brooklyn. That's why you were scared yesterday when I came into Manhattan-"

"Scared?" he interrupted, but I was ready for him.

"Yes, you were scared! I saw it in your eyes, Spot. You may fool everyone else with your bravado and your intimidation, but you don't fool me. You were scared, and it wasn't because of some fucking deal." I had never sworn like that in front of him, and despite the rage that was breaking all the barriers between my thoughts and my mouth, I was thrilled by it. "You were scared for me. Not for my girls, just for me. Of what would happen to just me if anyone found out who I was. If I'm just a deal to you, then why would you feel like that?

"And why would you let me come here to a party with you and all your friends? Why would you leave the girl that was slotted for that night to come be with me? Why did you sit next to me and touch me and look at me all night long? Why were you so happy that I called you 'Seth'? Why, Spot? Why would you do any of those things or let any of those things even matter to you if I was just a deal?"

Now, I do realize that everything I said to him was the complete opposite of everything I had thought in the wash room. I do realize that; I'm not completely crazy. I had only moments before told myself in no uncertain terms that he did not care about me, and that was just a fact. But the little things he'd done recently were warring with my sense of logic, and I felt compelled-no, forced-to ask.

I wasn't just taunting him, though I'm afraid that's how it came out. I wanted to know. I wanted to know why he'd done all he'd done in the past few weeks. I had loved him almost from the first time I met him and he practically let the door smack me in the face on my way in. He had never made me feel like just a deal. We were friends from the start, regardless of what we both claimed.

Spot's body was so tightly wound, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides, that I could almost hear the tension buzzing around him. He stared me down, but did not speak. His eyes were focused, not on my face, but at a spot behind me on the door.

"And why, now, can't you even look at me?" I demanded, stepping closer to him. "Tell me, Spot, Tell me why you did those things. Why you said them. I wanna hear you say why. I want you to give me an answer that's not complete shit, and I want you to look at me when you do it."

Spot dragged his eyes back to my face and glared at me. His mouth worked as he tried to come up with something to say. Finally, he spat out, "You are such a woman. One second you're tellin' me I don' mean shit-all to you, and you don' care, an' the next you want me to what?-tell you I love you? Is that what you wanna fuckin' hear? 'Cause I ain't sayin' it."

"Why?" I shot back, closing the gap between us so I could feel his short, hard breaths on my face. He was only a few inches taller than me. All I had to do was tilt my head up a little, and our lips would be on the same level. "Why aren't you saying it? Because you don't? Or because you can't admit it to me or even yourself?"

I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't have this argument. We were on course to go around in circles for hours. He was right. I was being a total woman. One minute I was telling myself he didn't care about me, and the next I was convinced he did. In one breath I told him he meant nothing to me, and in the next I practically demanded him to tell me he loved me.

"You know what?" I said before he could respond, "I'm done. I'm done talking about this. I'm done trying to convince myself I don't care, and I'm done trying to convince you that you do. I'm gonna go. I will be here on Thursday and we'll…do what we always do."

Spot didn't say anything, and he'd long since stopped looking at me. He was gazing at my feet, his mouth in a scowl.

I turned to the door and pulled it open. As I walked through it, I glanced back. Spot had lifted his gaze and was staring at nothing, seeming to see nothing. His face was a mask of calm arrogance again. My heart constricted in my chest and I forced myself to leave, not to go back to him. All the arrogance in the world couldn't cover up what I knew.

I wasn't the only one who had been broken by this deal. It had damaged us both in some unidentifiable way. I was the only one who could help him, just as he was the only one who could help me, and right now, neither of us was willing to.

So what else was there to do, but leave?

.

A/N:

Wow. It's been a long time since I wrote this story-or anything longer than a Facebook status, really. But I'm getting back into the swing of things. I reread it this afternoon while Conlon (my kid, not Spot, and yes that's his name!) watched Elmo, and I thought to myself, "I want to know how this ends!" which of course was ridiculous, since I'm the writer. So if I wanna find out what else happens and how it ends, I just have to write it! And I hope I can get some readers back in here, what with how long it's been!

Send in your reviews-compliments, complaints, whatever!


	10. Chapter 8

The next few days passed in a blur for me. I tried to put on a brave face for the girls, 'cause who likes a moper? Nobody, that's who. But Panic knew immediately that something was up. She always does, which is both a blessing and a curse. This time, for me at least, it was most definitely falling on the side of "curse." She's not one for beating around the bush, and she's also not known for letting it go when you say, calmly and politely of course, "Leave me the fuck alone."

She hounded me for days, days during which the boys planned their rally, Jack was pursued by Snyder, and I did not see hide nor hair of Spot. Not that I expected to. Let's face it: if Spot Conlon were known for groveling to girls and revealing his feelings, he wouldn't be Spot Conlon, so-called "King" of Brooklyn.

And of course, there was the small, niggling fact that I didn't know what he felt about me. I tried to tell myself to cut my losses and just learn to live with the fact that all of this was just a deal. That became the constant refrain singing in my head: it's just a deal. Which, of course, made it all _no big deal. _Right?

Wrong. Because somehow, that infuriating, self-assured, slouching, smirking boy had become someone I cherished. Our time together became precious to me, try as I did to prevent that.

But had I? Tried? Really and truly tried? Thinking back, I remembered hating him for the first five minutes, and then, the second he kissed me, doing a complete one-hundred-eighty degree turn, emotionally. Oh, sure, over the year since we'd started this…whatever it was, I'd had silent conniptions every time my brain decided to remind itself that I loved him, but had I put distance between us? Had I stopped the extraneous conversations that followed sex? No. And ever since this strike business began, I'd been seeing him a lot more frequently than once a week, and, if we're being honest, loving every extra second.

I'd been careless and stupid with my heart, and I was paying the price. I should have gone in fully armed against my attraction to him, and instead, I let my guard down nearly completely and jumped in with both feet. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I was laying on the couch in the Atrium, thinking that word-stupid-over and over, my hands over my eyes, shaking my head with each repeat, when Panic walked in with Sprint on her heels. Panic cleared her throat, and I lowered my hands and turned my head to look at them. They looked nervous.

"What?" I asked warily, already knowing that something they were going to tell me was going to be unpleasant.

Panic glanced at Sprint, who was fidgeting, shifting her weight back and forth and wringing her hands. Finally, Panic spoke. "Sprint's just gotten back from talking to Spot."

My heart seized, and I sat up on the couch so fast I felt dizzy. "What?" I asked again. "Why?"

Panic sighed and came to sit by me on the couch. She knew without me telling her that this haze I'd been in for the past three days had to do with Spot, although I still wasn't telling anyone anything. She looked over at me, her eyes gentle and sympathetic, which spurned me to clear my own throat, smooth my expression, and say, composedly, "What did he have to say? And how did he find her?"

"She was on the bridge," Panic replied, still looking at me as though worried I might start slitting my wrists at any moment. "He came hisself and asked her to pass a message to you." She paused, and I felt a ball of anxiety grow in the pit of my stomach. "He wanted her to tell you that none of us girls is allowed to come to the rally t'night."

I was taken aback. This was not the message I'd been expecting, although, realistically, I'd have to be living in a sappy romance novel in order to receive the message I wanted, and if my dirty clothes and sweaty face were any indication, that was never going to happen.

Finally, I found my voice, and asked, "Why not? There will be so many people there no one will even notice us. What does it matter?" Even as I said the words, it hit me: Five of us had been seen at Brooklyn's party earlier in the week. We were, as far as they knew, seamstresses and nannies and maids who had no business being at a newboys' rally. Our presence would be anything but inconspicuous.

Before Panic could reply with what I knew would be exactly what I'd just realized, I held up a hand. "Never mind. I know why. And as much as I hate-and I mean really, really _hate-_-to admit it, he's right. We can't go."

Sprint sighed heavily from the doorway where she'd been lurking and moved forward into the room. "I thought ya'd say that. But...we gotta know what's goin' on. We can't jus' be out in the dark, and with you and Spot not talkin'..." she trailed off, hearing what she'd just said.

My eyes narrowed, and my heartbeat quickened. "How do you know we're not speaking?" I asked softly, trying to keep the unexpected excitement out of my voice.

Sprint began fidgeting again, and it was a long moment before she answered. "Spot said...well, I asked him why he didn' come here to tell ya hisself like he did b'fore, and he...well he said he didn' think you wanted ta see him if ya didn' hafta."

I desperately wanted to hound her for details: What did he look like-did he look sad, angry, confused? Did he look, like I did, as though he hadn't been sleeping well? Did he ask about me-how I was doing, what I was doing-anything?

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to ask her those questions. Instead, I straightened my spine, licked my lips, and said, "Well, alright. We won't all be going to the rally, but you're right, we need to know what's going on. Sprint, do you think you can sneak in the back? Just to watch the action? You'll need to make sure you're not seen, of course."

She looked mildly insulted as she said, "O' course I won' get seen. I never get seen."

"Right," Panic interjected, saving me from having to scramble for an apology. "Course. We know that, right Gleam?"

"Yeah. Yes," I answered, still distracted by thoughts of Spot. Ah, how I wanted to go to that rally, if only just to catch a peek at him. But I couldn't. Spot had said-wait.

I was pissed at him. Maybe it was an irrational anger, and maybe it had no grounds in reality, but those were facts, baby. I was pissed the fuck off and the last thing I wanted to do was listen to him.

"I'm going," I said abruptly. Panic and Sprint both turned their heads to me so fast I was surprised they didn't crick their necks.

"What." Panic asked in a monotone, proving yet again that her name was ironic for a reason. "You can't go. All o' Brooklyn sees you every week. They know you're one o' Spot's girls."

_One of. _

"Did you know?" I demanded, changing the course of the conversation so fast I didn't expect Panic to follow.

She studied my face for a moment, reading my expression. She turned briefly to Sprint and told her to go have lunch; we'd call her in if we needed her.

Once we were alone, Panic refocused her attention on me. "Tell me what's goin' on, Gleam. You've been in a bad mood ever since you got home from Brooklyn Saturday mornin'. Here Monday's half over, and ya still upset. What the hell happened-and don't tell me t' fuck off, 'cause I'm not gonna. Ya gonna tell me right now."

She was using her "mother" voice on me, the voice that worked wonders on the little girls when they were misbehaving, and still struck a chord in me, reminding me of my own mother's voice when she meant business.

I sighed and dropped my head into my palms, raking my hands through my hair. I sat up and looked over at her. She was sitting directly beside me, which made it harder to make eye contact, which actually, in turn, made it easier for me to talk.

I told her everything. About when we first met, about the talks we've had, about the sex, the arguments, the playing, the laughing, the yelling. About the party, and what I'd heard. About that morning when I'd gone temporarily insane and hadn't been able to make up my mind to myself or out loud.

By the time I was done, my mouth and throat were dry, and Panic was leaning back against the cushions, staring at me with an inscrutable look on her face.

We sat that way for over a minute, neither of us speaking, her leaning back, arms folded under her ample breasts, me leaning forward, my elbows on my knees. She stared at me while I gazed fixedly at the floor as though I'd been bidden to memorize its every scratch and dent.

Finally, she broke the silence. "You love him."

"Yes." The truth slipped out of my mouth before I could even think, and there it was, out there in the world. I chuckled, but the sound was much more bitter than amused, and I felt, not relieved, but hopeless, for what could be more pathetic than falling in love with the guy you've bribed with your wiles to protect you?

"So. What're ya gonna do about it?"

"Do about it? _Do_ about it?" My voice was shrill. "I'm gonna do exactly what I've been doing-sit here and pretend the problem doesn't exist, tell myself how damned stupid I am, and force myself to treat this like a business agreement and not a relationship. That's what I'm gonna do about it."

Panic straightened and grabbed my shoulder, yanking me upright. She angled her body to face me, and I did the same, knowing I wasn't going to like what was coming.

"You're an idiot," she said, her voice more emotional than I'd heard it in years. Before I could make a sound of protest, she barreled on, "You love him, and you-you-D'you know how long I waited to even _speak_ to Mush? Six years! Six! D'you have any idea how horrible that was for me? Here I was, knowing countless things about him, and he didn't even know I existed until Friday afternoon. And you haven' even asked me how it's goin' with us, by the way, 'cause ya so wrapped up in yaself-"

She was preparing to go on, but I felt so dismayed at her words I had to jump in before she could. "Oh, God, Panic, you're right. You're right. I haven't asked a thing about you and Mush. I should have. You're my best friend, and you deserve better than that."

Her face was stony, but it softened at my words and tone, and by the end of it, she was almost smiling. She glanced at me with a giggle in her eyes, and said, "We was together las' night. It was..." she sighed, and I had to smile. Only Mush could take away her professional demeanor and turn her back into the seventeen year-old she was. "He brought me t' the lodgin' house." At my look of shock, she added, "Not as Panic, o' course, as the girl from Tibby's, y'know? As Kassidy. As...me. That's how we knew Snyder was lookin' for Jack. When I got there, he'd just gone, and everyone was talkin' about it.

"Anyway, I helped 'em with their signs and met everyone who hadn' been at the party Friday. O' course, here they are introducin' theyselves to me, and I'm thinkin, 'Bumlets, you go t' a Catholic church every Sunday an' none of them knows about it,' or 'Jake, you wear those overalls all the time 'cause before ya became a newsy, ya lived on a farm upstate with ya parents, who both died o' the consumption, and we know that b'cause you told it to a farmer at the market one Saturday.' All these things we know about 'em all that no one else knows, and I was havin' t' pretend they was all new t' me.

"I had t' pretend Mush was all new t' me, too. He took me t' dinner, and I knew what he was gonna order before he even opened his mouth. He was everythin' I always seen an' also...somethin' new, too. He was...romantic." She seemed vaguely embarrassed at the use of that word, but I smiled, the movement unfamiliar after my days of brooding.

If anyone deserved a fairy tale romance, it was Panic, and I told her so. She smiled back at me, and then looked exasperated and said, "But you an' Spot. Ya think what you two have wouldn' make a good story?"

"A good story?" I repeated. "Who would want to read about the girl who screwed the boy to avoid getting her family screwed and then screwed herself over by falling in love with said boy who then screwed her over by screwing anything in a skirt?"

"Or, " Panic cut in, a look or warning on her face, "How about the story of the gorgeous girl who sacrifices herself to the beautiful boy in order to save her family, and then they fall in love, get married, get outta the slums, and live happily ever after?"

I scoffed. "I don't see anyone falling in love here but myself, and I certainly don't see a wedding, a nice home, or a happy ending. I see shit. Complete and utter shit."

"Yeah, now!" Panic replied hotly, starting to finally lose her cool. "O' course it's shit now! Those romance novels some o' the girls read get it all wrong, because it's almost never 'meet, fall in love, happy ending.' With me, it was 'see from afar, love from afar, suffer years o' unhappiness over it.' It's only jus' now gettin' t' the happy part."

I knew what she was getting at. She thought if I didn't give up on Spot, if I worked harder at figuring out exactly where he stood, everything would work out. But Spot was not Mush Meyers, who wore his heart on his sleeve and a smile on his face.

In over a year of knowing Spot, I knew very little about his life. Sure, we talked about lots of things, but they were all inconsequential. I'd only learned his real name as a bribe to tell him mine. He still didn't know mine. I didn't know how he came to be a newsy. He didn't know anything about my father leaving my mother and me when I was 4, or how my mother worked herself into an early grave cleaning rich people's houses so I could have warm clothes, plenty of food, and go to school. She died of pneumonia the winter of my eleventh year.

I knew all about the orphanage. Some kids I went to school with had been there. I knew my going would break my poor mother's heart, so I fled our warm, bright tenement with layer upon layer of clothing on my back, and a small bag with some food, a picture of my mother (who, as the years have gone by, I've become the spitting image of, especially in black and white, where you can't see that she has brown eyes that do not match mine-"the one good thing your father ever gave you," she would say with no trace of bitterness, stroking my cheek.) and the 64 dollars my mother had saved from her wages over the years to send me to college.

No one in my life knew that I still had that money hidden upstairs. It wasn't nearly enough to go to college on, but I couldn't bring myself to spend away my mother's dream.

I yanked myself back to the present, and looked up at Panic. "I know what you're saying, and normally, I'd agree. It's what I'd tell any of the girls who were having boy problems. But Spot...he's..." I trailed off, thinking of all the things he was. "He's stubborn. He's stubborn and arrogant, and cocky. He's selfish and immature and he thinks of himself before anyone else, except when it comes to his leadership duties. He's an asshole, Panic. He uses women and doesn't love them for a second longer than it takes to bed them. Spot Conlon is the most important person in Spot Conlon's life, and that's just the way it is."

Panic smirked at me. "I don' doubt that he's all them things an' more. But you didn' fall in love with him for any o' those reasons. Ya not that stupid."

I sighed, unable to keep the slightly desperate laugh out of it. "Maybe I am. But...you're right. He's also...loyal. He keeps his word, even when he hates you. Which he's proven these past few days, because I know he's angry with me, and we haven't had any blood-thirsty newboys banging in our door.

"He's so serious, but you can tell he wasn't always that way, because every once in a while he's so...goofy. But only for a second. And even then it's like an accident. He's smart. You can talk to him about things, and have an intelligent conversation. He can be...gentle, and kind. And he's passionate. Not just about sex, either, about a lot of things. His responsibility to his boys, for instance. He's hard on them sometimes, but it's obvious he'd lay down his life for any of them.

"He's funny. Not in the 'tell you a joke' kind of way, but just the way he says things-he's witty. And sometimes, I've seen something else in him. On Friday, I felt so dirty and betrayed. And at the time, and even now, I kept telling myself how crazy that is, because look at the situation. Look how we got here! How could I be angry that he's sleeping with other women? Just because I love him doesn't mean he owes me anything."

I paused, considering my next words carefully before continuing. "But he...I don't know how to explain it other than to say that it _feels_ like more than what it _looks_ like on the outside. We talk, and play, and joke around. We have _fun _together that has nothing to do with sex. He listens to me when I talk. He was so sweet at that party. I just-AGHH!"

I yelled out in frustration, unable to make sense of my whirling thoughts and warring emotions.

Panic looked at once amused and sympathetic. "Gleam, you have gotta make him talk t' you. Ya gotta figure this out, 'cause if ya don't, ya gonna go crazy."

"Haven't I already?" I asked, and we laughed. We laughed and laughed, unable to stop, and before I knew it, I was crying, and Panic was holding me, shushing me gently, making me feel like that little girl I used to be.

.

Later that afternoon, Sprint and I dressed in our best clothes and hoofed it to Manhattan, to Irving Hall. We got there at six-thirty, before any of the boys. The event wasn't slated to begin until dark, around eight. We slipped through the door and snuck through the lobby trying to find a good place to lurk during the event that wouldn't get us noticed.

"You're late!" A sharp voice behind us made us both jump and whirl around. A man in a white uniform stood there. I recognized him as the waiter and owner, Bill, at Tibby's. "The other girls got here a half hour ago! Where's the other one?"

"Oth-other one?" I asked, feeling completely lost. I glanced at Sprint, and she shrugged, wide-eyed.

Bill sighed impatiently. "I'm missing three girls. I guess you don't know where the other one is."

"No, sir, I'm sorry, we don't," I replied, deciding to just go with it. "We're very sorry we're late, sir, we didn't get off work on time today."

Bill grumbled a bit, and then waved us into a room where two other girls stood amid trays and glasses set on tables, wearing identical white aprons over their dresses. I knew they were to be the ones to bring the boys their drinks during the rally. The boys must have gotten enough money from their strike fund to pay for them. I knew this would make David especially happy. He would like the level of respectability a semi-catered event would create.

"Your aprons are on that chair," Bill told Sprint and me before turning to the other girls and addressing us all in a loud voice. "The event starts at eight and ends at nine-thirty. You will not receive any breaks in that time, and will each receive twenty cents at the end of the night."

Sounded pretty good to me. On a good day I sold one hundred fifty papers between the morning and evening editions. Before the jack-up, I was paying a seventy-five cents for them, giving me an average of seventy-five cents of profit a day, which, if you factored in the fact that there was only one edition on Sundays, gave me an annual income of about two hundred fifty dollars a year, which wasn't much.

Supper and nightly lodging cost me 12 cents a day, and lunch at Queenie's usually ran about 17 cents. For about 105 dollars a year, I could have a place to sleep and food to eat. The rest of my money went toward clothes and shoes when mine were worn out, books, and, more often, the smaller girls who couldn't sell enough papers to make ends meet. As leader, it was my job to make sure no girls were left out on the street for the night because they couldn't sell enough papers, or had been sick that day. Panic, Angel, Lady, Mugger, and Sprint also pitched it when there was a need, and the six of us were also responsible for buying any of the "treats" that Missus Wells, our superintendent, deemed unnecessary. Missus Wells was not a Kloppman-type who was always present for her newsies. She was out more than she was in, and lived three streets over. Brooklyn's super only stopped in once a week-Sunday afternoons-to make sure everyone had paid their fees for the week.

Needless to say, if the City had found out about Missus Wells, she'd have been gone. The rules of the Children's Aid Society, who owned all the official Lodging Houses across the City, stated that the supers were required to live on-site, oversee their charges and the chores, coordinate events, keep girls out (or, in our case, boys), provide classes at night, and employ a maid and a cook. We had none of these except a cook, a former newsgirl we still called by her newsy name, Stocking (I don't know the story, so don't ask), but as she was only twenty-one, and had a life of her own, she mostly left us to govern ourselves. We weren't bothered by Missus Wells' negligence, however-we preferred our freedom to the rigid rules of Manhattan.

Brooklyn was another story. There was a Lodging House there, one run by rules and regulations, but only the youngest boys lived there. Once they hit fifteen, most moved out of Number 61 Poplar Street into the independently owned boarding house the older boys lived in. This was the one where the boys were left pretty much to their own devices, allowing for their famous bashes and for Spot's and my arrangement.

Sprint and I donned our aprons and joined the other girls, who looked a few years older and introduced themselves as Maggie and Jillian. Both of them were shop girls by day and took on as much extra work as they could. They lived together in a tenement and had exponentially higher fiscal demands than we did, although we didn't let on about that.

"I'm Lydia," I said, then gestured to Sprint. "This is Marie." Sprint smiled at hearing her own name spoken so freely. "We're maids over on Ninth," I improvised, pulling a street name out of thin air and hoping it would suffice.

It did. Maggie and Jillian merely grimaced and nodded knowingly before turning back to organizing trays. Sprint and I copied their movements, trying to look as though we did this all the time, praying the missing girls didn't show up and out us.

For once, things went our way. No other girls showed. Seven forty-five arrived at last, and we made our way out into the crowd with our trays, delivering glasses of Coca-Cola to every table.

I approached Jack's table where he sat with Spot, David, and Sarah, David's sister. Sarah wore a pretty white dress that I instantly envied, but her Bo Peep curls looked utterly ridiculous, although I'm sure they were the height of fashion. Spot was gazing out at the crowd, smirking and silent, and I knew he was excited about the turnout and the rumors that all the seats were full, and newsboys were listening in from both the lobby and the streets outside.

Jack noticed me first. "Hey!" he exclaimed, staring at me. Spot whipped his head around to look, and froze, his smirk fading to be replaced by shock. "Ya the girl from Friday! In Brooklyn!"

I smiled calmly and set their drinks down, saying, "Yes. I was asked by Bill to serve this event tonight. I was lucky to get away from work early enough!"

As Jack introduced me to Sarah, who was obviously curious as to how exactly her new beau knew me, but trying to cover it up, Spot stared at me, daggers in his eyes.

I glanced at him every few seconds, and when I took my leave from the table, he followed, Jack laughing good-naturedly, calling "We'se startin' soon, Spot, so kiss ya girl an' get back here." I glanced back to see Sarah's face relaxing immediately.

I laid down the rest of the drinks on my tray at a table containing a whole gaggle of Brooklyn newsies, Bourbon among them. He nodded to me, a small, knowing look on his face, and for the first time, I wondered exactly how much he knew. Bourbon was, after all, Spot's right hand, and it would make sense for him to know the true story. The other boys elbowed each other as I passed with Spot on my heels, and I could just hear someone say, "If he brings her home tonight, Monday's gonna have a fit." His companion spoke so quietly I could barely make out his words, but I did catch him saying, "Hasn't...girls...since Friday."

Did that mean what I thought it meant? Had Spot not seen any of his girls since the party? Had he been doing the Spot Conlon version of what I'd been doing-moping? I glanced back at him. He wasn't one to have a slew of facial hair, but I caught a previously unseen shadow on his upper lip. He had looked alert and well-rested among the excitement in the auditorium, but as he followed me into the room where we prepared our trays, his expression relaxed and I could see the exhaustion etched into his face.

The room was empty except for Sprint, who was reloading her tray. She looked up and grinned as I came in, but her smile drooped when she saw Spot. She quickly finished and scurried from the room, tossing a, "Hey," in Spot's direction as she went.

I kept my back to him and busied myself filling my glasses and arranging them. Spot walked over to the table and began pouring out beverages, handing them to me to put on the tray. He didn't look up from his work as he spoke. "What the hell d'ya think ya doin' here, Gleam?"

"Working," I replied breezily, not looking up either.

Spot's hands stilled, and he set down the bottle of Coca-Cola. For the first time, he looked at me, and I finally raised my head to meet his eyes. They were serious, full of concern, anger, and what I thought (hoped?) looked like sadness.

"I'm serious, Gleam," he said, resuming his pouring.

"So am I," I replied, taking the glass from him and placing it on the tray. "Sprint and I wanted to come. We didn't want to miss this like we miss everything else. We were just going to sneak in the back, but Bill saw us and thought we were his missing servers. So...here we are. No one will know who we really are, Spot," I added when he didn't respond. "The other girls working right now are shop girls. It's not uncommon to moonlight at things like this."

Spot stayed silent, continuing to pour, and within seconds, my tray was full. I fussed with the glasses, stalling for time. I had no idea what to say to him, and clearly, he was in the same boat.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "I, uh...I wanted to say that, uh..." he trailed off and looked at me, a question in his eyes. Clearly, he was looking for me to save him from having to-what?-apologize?

I stayed silent, keeping my gaze on the glasses.

"Gleam, look at me," he said harshly. I did. He sighed and swept his gray tweed hat off his head, his shaggy hair immediately flopping into his face. He fiddled with it, and I took in his crisp, deep blue denim shirt, his undershirt like heavily creamed coffee, his brown pants, black shoes, and red suspenders. His cane was tucked into a loop on his left side, his slingshot in his right front pocket. The mysterious key he wore round his neck was dangling from its thick off-white twine. I didn't know the story behind that key, though many-including myself-had asked.

"I don' know exactly what ya heard on Friday, but I can guess." He paused, but when I did nothing but purse my lips, he continued. "I don' know how all o' this with...us...got so complicated. It was s'posed to be easy. A little fun once a week. An' now..."

My heart was hammering in my chest again, and it was difficult to breathe. Was he about to say what I'd been longing to hear?

"Now ya mad at me. And usually, when a girl gets mad at me I drop her an' get a new one, 'cause what do I care? But..." He twirled his hat some more and then shoved in onto his head. "You're mad and I...I can't just drop you."

"Why not?" I asked, more sharply than I'd intended. "Are you saying that without sex you'd out me and my girls?"

"_No!_" he exclaimed, slamming his hands down on the table. "Ya takin' ever'thing I say the wrong damned way!" I took a step back from the table, startled by his outburst. I looked down at the floor and was struck with the realization that I was wearing the exact outfit I'd first met him in. The thought made me feel awkward for some reason.

"Then what are you saying?" I asked, peeking up at him.

"I'm sayin' you're mad and I actually care!" Spot leaned over the table, putting his weight on his arms and staring down at his rapidly reddening hands.

I shifted my weight and then moved a step closer, smoothing my skirt with shaking hands. "What does that mean?" I asked softly, feeling my heart in the throat.

"I don't know," Spot said softly to his hands. He pushed off from the table and stood straight. "I don't fucking know what it means."

"Okay, well-"

"Spot?" Mush peeked his head in the doorway. "We'se 'bout t' start. Jack said ya gotta come now." Mush turned and left, tossing me a wave and a smile as he went. I raised a hand in response.

Spot turned to leave, and I felt my hope leaving with him. Would we ever actually get to finish this conversation? At the doorway, he stopped and turned back. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but shook his head and walked out.

I followed with my full tray.

.

A/N: This chapter took a lot of research. Google provided me with the average wages in 1899, and Nine Duane at Queenisity dot com provided information on lodging houses in 1899. Thanks to both!


	11. Chapter 9

{Insert "I own nothing" disclaimer here. Oh, although I do own any OCs, so there!}

I exited the room and caught a quick glimpse of Spot entering the auditorium before he disappeared into the crowd. I followed and was instantly surrounded by boys of all shapes, sizes, and degrees of cleanliness.

I squeezed through the milling crowd and found myself at a table about ten feet away from the raised platform where Spot, Jack, and David were standing in a clump, conferring. I slowly began to set my drinks down, moving at a snail's pace to try and hold out on having to exit until after they'd made their announcements.

All the sudden, Jack was waving his arms at the front of the platform, and newsboys from all over the city and surrounding areas were settling into their seats. David and Spot stood behind him, Spot leaning on a railing, grinning.

"Carryin' the banner!" Jack yelled, and all the boys cheered and screamed in enthusiastic response.

Once they had settled back into the seats they had vacated in their cheering, Jack continued, "So! We've come a long way, but we ain't there yet-and maybe it's only gonna get tougher from now on-but that's fine! We'll jus' get tougher with it!"

There was a smattering of applause, and Spot clapped his hands together, nodded, and yelled out, "Yeah!" biting his lip after. I watched him fondly, not even registering the fact that I had halted next to the table and was standing stock-still, staring at the boys on the stage, as enthralled as the rest of the boys with what they were saying.

"But also!" Jack continued, "We gotta get smart, and start listenin' to my pal David-" there were cheers, and Spot grinned, stepped forward, and slapped Jacob fondly on the chest. It seemed they'd gotten over their mutual dislike. "Yeah!" Jack said, then barreled on, "Who says, 'stop soakin' the scabs'!"

Spot's grin melted off his face, and Racetrack, standing in front of the platform, asked, "What're we s'posed to do t' the bums? Kiss 'em?" There was laughter from the boys surrounding him, and Spot stepped forward.

Speaking loudly, he proclaimed, "Hey, look-any scab I see, I soak 'em-period." His words were met with cheers and a loud chorus of "Yeah!" from the surrounding boys, and Spot, spurred on the by encouragement, said something to Jack I didn't hear, gesticulating wildly with his arms, nodding his head.

David stepped forward and yelled out, "No! No, no, that's what they want us to do! If we get violent," he said, gesturing to the boys and pacing the platform, "It's just playing into their hands!"

Spot yelled from behind David, moving forward quickly, his voice intense. "Hey, look-they're gonna be playin' with my hands, alright?" His words sent a thrill through my body, as I recalled the many times in the past I had played with his hands myself. I choked down a laugh and refocused my attention on the stage, blocking out the images and listening to Spot's next words as he spat them our into David's face. " 'Cause it ain't what they say, it's what we say-" he turned to the rest of the boys"-and nobody ain't gonna listen to us unless we make 'em!

The boys cheered once again at his words. Spot was saying everything they wanted him to, and they were grateful for it. I felt frustration as Spot encouraged their cheers by pumping his fist and yelling drowned-out words at the boys nearest. Boys who disagreed yelled their arguments at the boys next to them, and I could tell that if nothing was done, all hell would break loose soon.

This was crazy. Nothing would work out the way we wanted to if all they did was portray us all as imbeciles. We had to be serious. We had to be organized. We had to act like the adults we wanted to be treated as. This angry mob mentality Spot was inspiring would get us nowhere.

Finally, Jack stepped up, and yelled, "Ya got no brains! Why we startin' t' fight each other? It's just what the big-shots wanna see! That we're street trash-street rats with no brains! And no respect for nothin' including ourselves!" The boys, thoroughly chastised, began to settle, and Spot stood looking out into the crowd. His eyes briefly rested on me as I stood amidst the boys, and his expression was unreadable. I pleaded with him silently to listen to Jack, to go along with his words, as they were the only solution. He turned away as Jack continued, "So here's how it is: If we don't act together, then we're nothin'. If we don' stick together, we're nothin'. And if we can't even trust each other, then we're nothin'."

"Tell 'em Jack!" I heard Blink's voice from off to the side, and looked up to see him straddling the balcony, a cigarette in his right hand, surrounded by boys I didn't recognize. I felt a lightness in my chest as more and more of the boys came to this same conclusion.

"So, what's it gonna be?" Jack asked, leaning forward, arms on the rails of the bridge he stood on.

There was a brief conferring, and then Racetrack spoke again while the boys around him nodded in agreement, "We're with you, Jack."

Spot ambled in front of Jack, looking let down. He glanced at his feet, then forward, his expression slightly crestfallen. Jack looked up and saw him, and stood upright, moving to stand in front of him.

"So wha' d'you say, Spot?"

Spot looked out into the crowd, his mouth firmly set. His eyes found me. I stared back at him and nodded just slightly, willing him to go along with Jack's plan. He flicked his gaze to the other boys and then back to me, then closed his eyes briefly in acceptance. I knew before he spoke that he would agree, and I felt a thrum of triumph in my chest.

"I say," he said slowly, malice in his voice, "That what you say..." he grinned, "Is what I say." I laughed, unable to keep a straight face. They spit and shook (a disgusting past time, in my opinion) amidst cheers, and then all three boys joined hands and raised them in the air, laughing.

Medda entered in a lovely pink dress and began singing as planned. All the boys joined in, and Blink nearly gave me heart failure when I noticed him hanging from the balcony, singing with all his might.

I milled about, collecting empty glasses slowly. I handed Spot my last full glass as he passed. He glanced at me and slowed, staring at me. I wanted to speak, but couldn't find any words, so I merely touched his arm with my free hand, feeling the warmth of his bare skin, and moved past. I could feel his eyes on me as he sat down next to Sarah at the table with David.

What happened next happened so fast it's all kind of a blur in my mind. One second I was heading back to the preparation room to set down my empties and get fresh glasses, and the next, Spot had come out of nowhere after disappearing from his table into the crowd. He rushed up to me and grabbed my arm, yelling at me to find Sprint. I dropped the tray as he yanked me along, and the glasses crashed to the floor and broke. Sprint was in the preparation room again, and as we burst in she looked up, surprised.

"Snyder's here!" Spot yelled, fear in his voice. "You two have to go, _now_! If he catches ya, he'll find out where ya live, and from there it'll be easy for him to find out who ya are. _Go_!"

Sprint rushed to the door, but halted when she found I wasn't behind her. I stood my ground even as Spot pulled my arm to make me go.

"What about you? Come with us!" I said desperately, even as I heard screams and yells from the auditorium, and knew it might be too late for any of us.

"I _can't_, Gleam," he said quickly, glancing back at the door where Sprint waited anxiously. Boys were streaming past, yelling for friends. "They's after Jack. I have t' try and get 'im outta here. An' I gotta get as many o' my boys as possible out. But _you_ have to _go_!"

"_No_!" I yelled, jerking my arm out of his grip so violently my hair flung into my face. I pushed it away angrily. "I'm not leaving you here!"

"_You have to_!" Spot yelled back, the tendons in his neck straining. "You have to _go_! You can't be here! You need to get somewhere safe _now_! Go!" he turned me toward to door and ran toward it with his hands on my back, propelling me forward.

Sprint grabbed my arm and prepared to run. I tensed and stopped her before she could drag me along and turned back to Spot for one last second. On a whim, I seized his hand and squeezed it. He looked back at me, and his eyes crinkled with an emotion I couldn't name. He squeezed my hand and released it, yelling "_Go_!" one last time before sprinting off into the crowd the wrong way, a salmon fighting the current.

Sprint and I made it out alright by the grace of God-and Bill, who swooped down upon us as a policeman tried to detain us and explained that we were merely girls hired on to serve for the event. They let us go immediately, muttering apologies to Bill, who was a regular server of police in Manhattan, and we hightailed it out of there, running until we couldn't hear the yells or whistles.

Once we'd gotten a safe distance away, we began walking quickly, staying in the light as much as possible and avoiding the yawning darkness of alleyways.

We reached home late, around 11, and roused Panic, Lady, Angel, and Mugger from their beds. The six of us sat up all that night holding vigil, waiting for news that didn't come until nearly dawn, when the doorbell sounded.

We all glanced at each other, then I slowly made my way to the door, peeking through the small window.

_Bourbon_.

So he knew it all. He must have. He knew where to find us, after all. Somehow, this development did not shock me. Bourbon could be trusted; I knew that without a shadow of a doubt.

I opened the door to him and he immediately stepped inside. I shut the door behind him and followed him to the Atrium, where he stood in front of the rest of the girls, who looked stricken at his sudden appearance.

Coming up behind him, I held up my hands. "Don't flip, girls. Bourbon's good. We can trust him."

Bourbon turned to me and smiled softly. I sat on the couch between Panic and Mugger, and Bourbon sat in the remaining empty chair.

"Well, Jack was arrested," he began, and we all groaned, dismayed. "That's not all," he continued. "So was Spot." My heart skipped a beat, and I felt a swell of panic rise in my stomach. I had to force myself to keep listening. "Jack's bein' held separately. Spot's with Race, Blink, Mush, Snitch, Bumlets, Swifty, Snoddy, Boots, Skittery, and a whole bunch o' other 'Hattan and Brooklyn guys."

I couldn't hold my tongue any longer. The girls looked as traumatized as I felt, and I had to speak for all of us. "What happens next, then? Are they going to let them all rot in the Refuge?"

"No," replied Bourbon, somehow managing to keep composed, which I appreciated, as it helped me to do the same. "They have a hearing tomorrow mornin'. Spot and the others firs', then Jack alone after."

"How'd ya find all this out?" asked Mugger, tossing her red hair over her shoulder and leaning forward on her own chair.

"Climbed t' the roof of the Refuge and talked to Spot," Bourbon said simply. We nodded; we all knew about that. It was pretty commonplace for the boys to have someone arrested, and the window was easily accessible from the roof if you had a good length of rope.

"Is he-" I caught myself, "Are they okay?"

Bourbon returned his gaze to me and contemplated me with his dark, knowing eyes. "They's fine. A little banged up, but still standin'."

We all breathed a sigh of relief at that, and it hit me for the first time that Panic must have been worried over Mush as much as I'd been worried over Spot. Lady and Angel, of course, were worried about Blink and Skittery.

God, I really was selfish. I didn't even know what, if anything, was happening between Angel and Lady and their Manhattan boys. I hadn't even considered their worry or Panic's in the midst of my own personal hell. I was really failing at life lately.

"Well, I'd better go," Bourbon said suddenly standing. I got up, too, and walked him to the front door, opening it for him.

"Thank you," I said softly, catching his arm as he made to leave. "You didn't have to come all the way out here."

He stilled and turned back to face me. He once again gave me that long, searching look. "You know," he began, leaning against the open door frame. "Spot didn' tell me who y' really were until after we got into the strike. You know, the day you was there when we left for Manhattan?"

"I remember," I said, leaning on the other side of the door, facing him.

"We was on our way, and I asked him who ya were. Ya've always been diff'rent than the other girls he's brought in. He talks to you. He lets ya stay after...well, you know, after." I did know. "That mornin' I knew somethin' was really, _really_ diff'rent about ya, 'cause he let ya stay while he talked to me about the strike. Then he went after ya before we left." He shifted his weight and crossed his arms. "When he fin'lly told me, I couldn' believe it."

I laughed softly. "It _is_ kind of unbelievable," I agreed.

"Yeah..." Bourbon glanced around the quiet lobby and into the Atrium, both rooms shabby but clean. He turned his head to look at the stairs, and I knew he was picturing the bunkroom-filled with girls instead of boys. "Anyway, I jus' want ya to know your secret's safe with me, Gleam."

I smiled, feeling a wave of happiness wash through the dread I'd been feeling since leaving the rally. "Thanks, Bourbon. I wouldn't have doubted you."

"Y'know," he added, seeming unable to stop himself, "Most of us in Brooklyn and Manhattan is trustworthy. You wouldn' all have t' hide if ya'd tell all o' us who ya was. We'd protect ya from anyone else, y'know."

I stayed silent a moment, considering his words. He was probably right. We could let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and most likely be able to keep our turf with the backing of Brooklyn and Manhattan. They were by far the most influential boroughs-and that influence would only increase if Jack and Spot managed to win this battle of wills with Pulitzer.

"Maybe you're right, Bourbon," I said finally. "In fact, you _probably _are. I don't think any boroughs have had such a good group of boys as you and Manhattan in a long time. If there was any time to do this, it would be now."

"That's all I'm sayin'," he replied with a smile, his eyes soft and kind.

"Let's get through this next part, though, okay? Getting the guys out and finishing the strike? Then we'll see where to go from there."

"Fair enough," he said, nodding in agreement. He turned once again to go.

"Just out of curiosity, have you talked to Spot about this?" I asked quickly, stopping him.

"Yeah," he replied, "I have."

"And?" I asked, feeling nervous all the sudden.

"He said I was probably right, but he didn' know if he wanted to do it."

"Why not?" I asked sharply, feeling stung.

"He uh.." Bourbon looked suddenly uncomfortable. "He said if he let go o' the deal, he'd lose the best part of it."

"The sex?" I asked, feeling scathed and embarrassed.

"I don' know, honestly," Bourbon answered, looking thoughtful. "He didn' say anythin' else after that. But I kinda got the feelin' it wasn' just the sex he'd be missin', it'd be _you."_

He left then, leaving me standing at the doorway in a warm, pleasant shock, the still muggy air blowing my skirt around my ankles.

.

A/N: Wow, I'm just cranking these out lately. I'm inspired, what can I say? Plus, I haven't been called in to work yet this week (I substitute at the high school here on post) and Conlon is sick, so he has commandeered the TV to watch Elmo's World (if that voice and music all day long doesn't make you vaguely suicidal, I don't know what will) so I've just been writing in between cuddles with my Conlon-face. :) I hope you enjoyed, ladies! Review!


	12. Chapter 10

I was running out of things to clean. Since we had a useless super and no maid, we girls pretty much cleaned up after ourselves. The younger girls had a harder time maintaining any sort of acceptable level of cleanliness, however, so Panic, Lady, Angel, Mugger, Sprint, and myself did most of the heavy cleaning.

But I'd been cleaning for hours now and I was running out of options. The washroom was sparkling, the windows were shining, the floors and tables gleaming. The rugs and cushions had been beaten clean. I'd done all the laundry, no small feat, and hung it all out to dry in the warm sun.

The younger girls were outside playing under Panic's watchful eye, and the older girls were out spying. None of us who had spoke to Bourbon had gotten any sleep after hearing that each and every one of our respective interests was behind bars.

Now, it was nearly nine-thirty. We had no idea what time the boys were due in court, so Sprint had left at six, just to be safe. I was bored. I had no papers to sell, and I was having to use my savings (not my mother's: still, for some reason, not that sixty-four dollars) to pay for my own lodging and food, plus the same for a few other girls who couldn't afford it. The other five oldest girls were all doing the same.

I had just flung a previously clean throw pillow across the room in worry and frustration when the door opened, and there stood Sprint, with Spot behind her.

Sprint didn't speak, but merely gave me a small smile and headed up the stairs, where I knew she would fall into bed, her job for the day done.

Once her heel had disappeared from sight and I heard the door to the bunkroom _thunk _closed, Spot stepped forward into the room.

"Looks nice," he said, sweeping the room with his eyes. I have him a once-over. His clothes looked rumpled and dirty, his hair was lank and hanging in his face, but there were no bruises or injuries I could see.

"Yeah, well...I've been doing a lot of nervous cleaning," I replied, wondering why we were bothering with inane niceties. "Are you okay?" I asked, kicking myself for not being able to keep the naked concern from my voice.

"Yeah," he replied moving to collapse on the couch, "I'm good. We're all okay. Blink got a little banged up, and so did Race. Jacky-boy got the worst-real nice shiner on 'is right eye."

"So...what happened? What did the judge say?"

Spot leaned into the worn cushions, his legs splayed on the floor in front of him. He stretched widely before sitting back up, leaning his elbows on his knees and studying me. He'd lost his hat at some point, I assumed, since he wasn't wearing it, and had clearly not been home again to get a new one.

"He fined us five bucks or two weeks in the Refuge."

I nodded. Five dollars didn't sound that steep to me, although not everyone pinched pennies like I did. I knew for a fact most of those boys spent all their extra money on booze, cigarettes, bets with one another, more food than they could possibly eat, and, some, on the races. I wasn't living in style or anything, but I would have at least been able to pay a five dollar fine. The boys, however, were another story. Always thinking about today, never giving any thought to tomorrow, or the rest of their lives.

"But then Denton showed up and paid all the fines."

At this my eyes bulged. "How many of you were there?" I asked incredulously.

Spot shrugged, pursing his lips, "I don' know...15, 20?"

"God," I said, feeling a little breathless, "Nice guy, that Denton."

"Yeah." Spot looked troubled about something, and I hesitantly went to sit next to him on the couch.

"What else?" I asked softly.

"Jack. He, uh...Dave told me after that..." he sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "His name ain' Jack Kelly. It's Somethin' Sullivan. Francis. An'...his ma's dead, his pa's locked up."

_Poor thing_, was what went through my head, but I could tell that Spot was feeling a bit betrayed by the friend he thought he knew. I touched his forearm briefly, just long enough to make him turn his head and look at me.

"We all lie, Spot. It's very rarely that we tell anyone the whole truth of how we wound up here, you know that. You do the same thing."

"I guess," he said, still looking stubbornly put-out. "Anyway, uh..." he seemed hesitant to say the next part out loud. "...The judge sentenced 'im to the Refuge until he's twenty-one."

My heart stopped. I swear, for a second it really did. Four years? Four _years_? And where would we be without Jack?

"Holy shit," I said faintly, sitting back into the cushions. Spot did the same next to me. "So, what happens now?" I asked, turning my head to the right to look at him.

He considered his next words as I studied his profile. A straight, slightly long nose over full pink lips. High cheekbones over a narrow face. A boyish face. It hit me then, how young we were. The papers had called us the "Children's Crusade," and I had felt vaguely insulted. Now I realized that's exactly what we were. Seventeen years old, and forced into leading children we were not much older than.

In happier situations we would have still been at home with our parents, still at school, preparing for the day when, a year, or two years from now, we would leave the nest for the first time. Instead, here we were, on a "crusade." Maybe I should have been proud; instead, all I felt was sadness, a kind of grief for the life we both could have had.

Finally, Spot spoke, "I'm not sure, really. Dave wanted to meet at Tibby's but I sent Zip to listen in and came here instead."

I let that sink in a moment. "Why?" I asked after a few awkward seconds of tense silence.

" 'Cause I knew you'd be worried," he answered, speaking softly as though embarrassed by the reasoning that had brought him here.

"Oh." For a second, I couldn't think of what else to say. "Well, I was," I said finally, lamely.

"Anyway, I should go," he said abruptly, standing. I did the same. "I gotta get back t' Brooklyn t' hear what Zip says. I'll be back t' update ya later."

"Yeah, okay," I said, still feeling the horrible weight of the awkwardness that permeated our words and movements. It was as though last night, something had shifted. Spot had revealed more of himself and his feelings to me than he'd meant to, I was sure of it, and now he was pulling back, reeling himself back in.

And I was letting him. What did that say about _me_? I had no answers as I followed him to the door. Once we were there, he paused and turned back, and I was reminded of my conversation with Bourbon early that morning.

"I'm sorry I didn' warn ya that I'd told Bourbon." Well, that was ironic. "Zip tol' me he left early this mornin' and wouldn' tell anyone where he was goin'. He told Zip that I'd know where he'd gone."

"It's alright," I said, smiling a little. "I trust him. I trust you both."

Spot almost smiled at that, nodded, and walked out, not glancing back once.

.

Spot did not return that night, instead showing up the next day a little before noon, with Bourbon behind him. Spot looked shaky and angry, breathing hard, and Bourbon looked tense and uneasy.

I stepped back to let them in, and shooed Wrecker and two of the other little girls out of the Atrium where we'd been playing Old Maid and outside, promising them soda pop and cookies later if they managed to come in with their clothes intact and unripped.

"Bribing them with treats?" Bourbon asked, smirking a little. I laughed, giving a half-shrug.

"Whatever works, right?" I said, smiling.

Spot strode past me into the room and stood at the table in the corner, bracing himself on his arms. Even from a few feet away I could hear his heavy breathing.

My grin faded. Something was seriously wrong here. "What the hell happened?" I asked, glancing from Spot's turned back to Bourbon's once again strained face.

"He sold us out," Spot said, in a low, dangerous voice choked with rage.

"Who did?" I asked, but had a feeling I already knew.

"Jack," Spot spat out the name as though it had burned in his mouth, and finally turned. The fury on his face made me take a step back, toward Bourbon. "He went to work for Pulitzer. For _money_. To get outta the Refuge."

I bit my lip. Although I understood Spot's anger and sense of betrayal, a part of me was saying, _well obviously_. We could all say we would never do a thing like that, but...faced with four years of the Refuge and whatever other threats Pulitzer had undoubtedly laid upon Jack, there was no telling what any of us would do.

Spot, however, was beyond reasoning, so I said nothing, merely stood near Bourbon and let Spot pace and fume. After a few moments, he muttered, "I need a cigarette," and moved through the Atrium to the kitchen, where there was an ashtray.

Once he'd disappeared, I turned to Bourbon, who was looking after his leader with an apprehensive expression.

"He'll be fine," I said softly, keeping my voice low.

"I don' know," Bourbon replied, moving to sit on the couch. I followed. I seemed to be spending a lot of time having serious discussions on this couch lately. "When 'e saw Jack, he went nuts. I was in the back with the other boys, but Spot was at the front with Manhattan. They had t' literally haul 'im away so he wouldn' go after Jack. I've never seen 'im lose it like that..." He trailed off and glanced toward the kitchen, from which a thin haze of cigarette smoke was now issuing.

I felt a lust for a drag, although I rarely smoked, and never in front of Spot. But, ah, God, what would feel better at the moment than a nice, smooth smoke? Except maybe a shot of something strong. Or sex...

_So not the time, Gleam. _

I dragged my mind out of the gutter and back to the matter at hand. Bourbon and I waited in companionable silence for Spot to come back. Suddenly, I was exhausted. I hadn't slept well the night before, even after being up for over 24 hours. I just wanted all this strike business to end so we could all get on with our lives.

I didn't have much longer here. Once I hit eighteen, it was over. I had to move on, find something else to do with my life.

"How old are you?" I asked Bourbon, abruptly and out of nowhere.

To his credit, he didn't look surprised. "Seventeen," he replied, turning his dark head to look at me.

"So we're all running out of time, then," I said, more to myself than to him.

"Time for what?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

I laughed, although it really wasn't funny. "You know as well as I do that as soon as we hit eighteen we have to find new lives. We can't sell papers or live here anymore."

"Well," he said, shrugging, "Our lodging house ain' exac'ly followin' anyone's rules. We've had guys over eighteen b'fore."

"Yeah, but do you really wanna be _that _guy?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Do you really wanna wind up the twenty-one year-old still living there selling papers?"

Bourbon laughed, a musical sound that made me happy just on its own merit. "No, not really," he said, still chuckling. "I don't know what else I'd do, though."

"None of us do," I answered, feeling a little lost again. "This is our life; this is who we are." I looked around the warm, comfortable room. "I guess when me and the oldest girls all hit eighteen we'll become maids and nannies and shop girls or whatever else there is, and all live together in some teeny tenement."

"So, switch the job, keep the friends?" Bourbon was still leaning back into the cushions, just as I was, our shoulders so close I could feel the warmth emanating from his. I glanced down at them, our shoulders next to each other, mine in a creamed-coffee-colored long john top much like the one Spot had worn to the rally, his in a deep green button-down checked with gold. My shoulders looked so small, right next to his. I was struck by how much he dwarfed me, as though all of me could hide inside him. Spot and I, when we laid together, fit together like puzzle pieces, his body only fractionally larger than mine.

"One can only hope," I said wistfully, after only a moment's pause. "I'd hate to have to go out there into the world all on my own."

"Do you think you'll stay in the City?" Bourbon asked, taking his hat off his black curls and fiddling with it.

"I suppose, yeah," I said automatically, not having expected the question. "This is my home. I was born here. This is where my mother was. She's gone, but leaving the City would still feel like abandoning her."

Why was I telling him this? I didn't talk about this with anyone except Panic, and here I was, telling this boy I hardly knew. There was something about him, though: an inherent goodness that forced you to trust him, to confide in him. He felt safe, I realized, in a way that Spot never did. There was always a trace of danger in the air whenever Spot was around, a hint of peril. But there was also the sense I got of being cherished. Although he never said anything as sappy as that, I could somehow feel it n the way he asked my opinion (or, if not asked, at least listened when I gave it nonetheless), and in the sheer, naked fear I'd felt emanating from him at the rally: fear not for himself, I knew, but for me.

Suddenly, a throat cleared off to the left of us, and we both straightened and looked over to see Spot standing in the doorway. My chest tightened at the sight of him, both from a thrill of being caught, and from the rush of emotion seeing him always gave me.

"Nice chat?" he asked, trying to sound off-hand and failing. I cringed inwardly. If he'd heard as much as I suspected he did, he couldn't have been happy. He'd asked me all those questions and more before, and though I'd answered, I'd been matter of fact, and never once had I mentioned my mother.

"Yeah, not bad," Bourbon answered breezily, standing from the couch in one fluid movement and walking over to stand near Spot.

I stood as well, and faced them both, still feeling nervous and jittery. Spot was studying me, and I felt as though I was caught in a spotlight (no pun intended, but when the shoes fits...). I felt disloyal, somehow, as though telling Bourbon anything had been a betrayal of Spot. But that was crazy-right?

Spot moved forward to stand close to me, physically edging Bourbon out of the conversation. Bourbon, not one to be left out, shifted to the side and stood to my right. Maybe not so crazy, after all.

"What do we do now?" he asked, looking at Spot.

Spot looked away from me and up at Bourbon, who towered over him, fully grown. Spot, also seventeen, wasn't much taller than me, and still looked like a boy. A beautiful boy, for sure, but a boy nonetheless. Suddenly, the simple question: _What do we do now? _seemed to encompass all sorts of things: not only the strike, but our entire lives. And I didn't have any answers.

"Now...now I talk to Dave and the rest o' the Manhattan boys an' we figure out how t' do this without Jack," Spot said firmly, his mouth set and hard. "We have t' finish this. It's not over even if Jack is done."

.

As it turned out, Jack was not done. The next morning, during what would have been our selling time, the Delancey's mongrels that they were, attacked Sarah and little Les. Jack, passing, swooped in to save them, really earning that "Cowboy" nickname of his. When word reached me that Sarah had punched a Delancey in the face, I felt a surge of grudging respect for her. Maybe she wasn't quite as hopelessly helpless as I'd thought.

Soon after that, Jack, Sarah, Les, and a still-angry David had headed to Denton's apartment. Denton, who had the day before informed the boys of his transfer and new position as ace War Correspondent as way of preventing him from reporting on the newsies, was packing when the group burst in with a plan.

Late that night, when I had skipped going to Brooklyn, unable to face whatever it was that was wrong between Spot and me, Jack, Sarah, David, and Denton had snuck down to the damp, dark basement room Jack had been living in. He'd been sleeping next to an old behemoth of a printing press, and under the cover of darkness, they painstakingly printed their own paper, the "Newsies Banner," and once the sun had risen, they'd ridden, ran, and walked throughout the City along with all the rest of the Manhattan newsies, handing it out to any kid, teenager, and young adult they could find: shoe shiners, stable boys, other newsies, factory boys, bike messengers, young women with small children.

I knew this was the one time we would not be able to prevent anyone from coming to Queens, and I brought in the oldest girls and told them to what to do. I sent Lady and Angel to Manhattan, Panic, Sprint (who'd been there already this morning, collecting information), and Mugger along with them. If the boys saw or found them, it would not be here, where their presence could not be explained, but in Manhattan, where, as the story went, they worked. I organized the girls of thirteen through fifteen, instructing them to take the youngest girls and clear out: go to parks, wander the streets, anywhere, just stay away from the lodging house.

Bourbon's words on trust and letting the secret go rang in my ears. It was good advice, and I was tempted to take it-but not today. Like I'd told him, we had to get through this drama before starting another.

Once the lodging house was empty, I changed into a deep black skirt with a wide black leather belt, my old black boots, and an emerald green blouse, one I usually only wore to Brooklyn. I left my hair waving and loose, slipping an old elastic around my wrist just in case.

I hitched a ride on the back of a lorry and rode into Manhattan, figuring that it was also the best place for me to be. Once I arrived, I stepped off the cart and paid the driver five cents for his kindness. He tipped his hat to me, smiled, and drove off, waving.

The chaos of Manhattan did not look any different this morning, at least not to the untrained eye. Looking closer, however, you could see boys in old clothes running amok, holding single-paged papers, thrusting them at random passersby.

I was walking as casually as possible down the street, when David, climbing down from a lorry much like the one I'd just arrived on, spotted me. He grinned and walked toward me, Jack, Les, and Sarah behind him, Jack also smiling, Sarah looking tentative and nervous, Les completely oblivious.

"Hey!" David said, reaching me.

"Hi," I responded, smiling back. I cast a wave to Jack and Sarah, still watching. Sarah's face relaxed as she smiled and waved back. The girl would have to find a bit more confidence if she expected this relationship of hers to work.

"Can you read?" David asked, holding up a paper.

I laughed. "Excuse me?" I said, reaching out to take it. I knew what it said, Sprint had already snagged a copy earlier and given it to me before she'd left to return to Manhattan.

David chuckled. "I'm sorry. We've been asking everyone. It just slipped out."

"It's alright. And yes, I know how to read," I replied, still smiling. "What is this?" I asked, though I already knew.

While David told me all the things I already knew about the Refuge, the strike, and their plans to confront Pulitzer outside the World building the next morning, I glanced around. Everywhere I could see, adults and children were holding onto the Newsies Banner, reading with looks that ranged from idle interest to rapt horror.

"So," David was saying, "If you wanna help us, come tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock."

"What does this have to do with me?" I asked, just for something to say.

"You're a maid, right?" David asked, and I nodded, hoping that was the right answer. There were so many lies in my every day that it was hard for me to remember what I'd told whom. "And you're, what-seventeen?"

"Yes..."

"Well then you're one of us. A working kid in New York. This isn't just about the newsies anymore. This is about every kid in the City who works hard and wants to be treated fairly." David looked more animated than I'd ever seen him, excited over the prospect of a huge, booming gathering of kids and teenagers from all over New York, demanding fair treatment. "Come. Please. And bring your friends. Will you be able to?" he asked, a plea in his eyes and tone.

"Well..." I hesitated. It seemed safe enough. There would, hopefully, be tons of people there, if all went according to plan. No one would ever have to know who any of us really were. "I don't have to be at work until noon on Saturday," I improvised, "So...okay."

David grinned and turned to Jack, Les, and Sarah, who had been handing out more papers to the people walking by.

"She's coming! And she's bringing friends!"

Jack and Sarah grinned and walked over, Sarah glancing back to make sure Les was staying put.

"Are ya really comin'?" Jack asked, looking excited.

"Yes, I am," I said, feeling buoyant. This, this was something we _could_ do.

"What's your name?" Sarah asked, edging closer to Jack. Confidence, girl, confidence. I'm not going to steal your man.

I hesitated for the space of a heartbeat before deciding to tell the truth. "Lydia," I said, reaching out to shake her hand.

"Sarah," she said, grasping my hand with her own.

"Nice to officially meet you," I replied, smiling. We released each other and stepped back, and I addressed them all.

"I've got to pick up some things and then head back to work," I lied, "But I'll see you tomorrow."

As I turned and made my escape, they all called their goodbyes. I turned a corner and nearly ran smack into Panic.

"We're going to this thing tomorrow," I said without preamble, expecting her to have qualms.

To my surprise, she smiled. "It's perfect, right? We can go and we don' have t' hide or sneak in. We can jus'...go."

I grinned back at her, and we began walking in the direction of home, taking it slow in order to arrive when all the various newsies delivering their banner were gone.

"So, I've been thinking," I said slowly, after fifteen minutes of walking in a comfortable silence, "Now might be the time to let out our secret."

Panic halted, her brown skirt blowing out in front of her. "What?" she said, trepidation in her voice. "Why? Why now? _How_?"

I kept walking, and she had no choice but to follow me. "It was something Bourbon said to me the other day. About how Brooklyn and Manhattan would protect us from anyone trying to usurp our territory."

"U-what?" Panic asked, her brow wrinkling.

"Usurp. Sorry," I said, giving her a half smile. "Take. And he's right. He's good, and Spot is, too. And now, with you, Angel, and Lady taking up with Manhattan boys, they'd all have incentive to protect us."

"But what if there was some kinda turf war?" She asked, wringing her hands. "We couldn't ask them to fight for us."

"Panic," I said gently, "No one's been in a turf war in years. It was a lot more common thirty years ago, or even fifteen, than it is now. That's why this whole thing was started; why we made this deal with Brooklyn in the first place. It was a real threat, then. But it's not, now. And it especially wouldn't be if Brooklyn _and_ Manhattan had our backs."

"I guess tha's true. But why didn' you do this when you first became leader? Why now?"

I shook my head, looking up at the blue sky, feeling the warm, sticky breeze blow strands of my hair off my face. "I don't know. I guess it just seemed like, 'This is the way things are. This is the way they're meant to be.' But all this with Spot, and all these complications, it just seems...cruel to do this to the next generation. I mean, Scots had no problem not having feelings for her Brooklyn leader, but now I'm wondering: how many other Queens leaders have had their hearts broken over this deal? How many more will be hurt after we're done? And even without the heart getting involved, it seems horrible to force a girl to give her body to a man for a secret that doesn't need to be kept anymore."

We walked along in silence for a few minutes, scuffing our feet and looking anywhere but at each other. "So..." Panic began, but then stopped, looking hesitant. She drew in a deep breath and barreled on, "Are you doing this so you don't have to see Spot anymore?"

"No," I responded automatically, then considered the question. "Well, I don't know. It's not so much that I don't want to see him. I do, obviously, I do. But I don't want to be _required _to. I don't want him to be required to see me. If anything is going to come of...us...then I want it to be because we want it to, not because it's 'in the contract', you know?"

She nodded, and we walked for a few more minutes in quiet, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts. Finally, Panic cleared her throat. "If ya wanna do this, I'll stand behind ya." She smiled. "It'd be nice to be with Mush and not have to lie."

"Do you think he'll be angry? When he finds out, I mean?" I asked, the thought suddenly occurring to me. I hadn't previously considered the repercussions for her, Lady, and Angel. What would become of their budding relationships if the boys found out they'd been spied on and played for fools for years?

"I don' know," she replied, looking worried. "I hope not. Or, at least, I hope not for long. I hope he'll understand that it wasn' a choice. And that I didn' finally meet him officially as part of any scheme."

I laughed. "Oh, I'll be sure to tell him that your meeting him and agreeing to go to that party in Brooklyn very nearly made me kill you," I assured her.

She laughed too, briefly. Then she composed her face, and asked, businesslike, "So, when do you think you'll do this?"

I thought hard, wondering when would be the best time. "Tomorrow," I decided. "After this thing. One way or another, the strike will be over tomorrow, and we'll either win or lose. But we all turn eighteen within the year, and we don't have much time before we're all done and moved on. I would hate for our next leader to have to deal with letting go of this secret. This is something we have to do now, something we have to get established before we all leave."

"Who d'ya think our next leader will be?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, you hafta choose. Soon, too, so you can train 'er."

"Well, hopefully the training will be significantly less time-consuming and...will not involve anything to do with sex," I replied. "I don't know. I mean, the girls I'd pick right off the bat will all be leaving when we do. Lady, Angel, Sprint, Mugger...It'll have to be someone younger, someone who will lead for two years, at least."

"Can ya believe it's almos' over?" Panic asked, suddenly looking as sad as I felt. "Soon we'se all gonna be outta the lodgin' house. Where we gonna go?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. I don't know what we're gonna do, or where we're gonna go. But," I added, studying her worried face, "We'll go together. We'll work together or at least close to each other, and we'll find an apartment together. Maybe me, you, and Sprint in one, and Lady, Angel ,and Mugger down the hall."

Panic smiled, looking reassured. "I hope so," she said, putting her right arm around my waist and pulling me to her.

"I know so," I replied, hugging her back.

.

A/N: I know this is really long. I couldn't figure out where to end it, mostly because in the movie, all that stuff happens boom-boom-boom, one right after the other. God, this is going much more quickly than I expected. I guess there's something to be said for a sick 20 month-old you can't take outside or anywhere else. :/

A little announcement:

Alright, so...there will be one or two more chapters of this story: finishing the strike, telling the secret, and then some Spot/Gleam stuff.

After that, I will be **ending this story **and starting the **sequel**, which will be jumping ahead 2 or 3 years, mostly because since I'm not 16 anymore, writing romantic/sexual things about teenagers makes me feel like a total pedo. So after the jump, all our main characters will be 19 or 20.

It will be a continuation of the **same story,** just a whole new set of issues...and since their lives will be different, I figure the title should be, also. That story will be **significantly shorter** than this one-probably no more than 5 or so chapters.

That is all. :) Review!


	13. Chapter 11

We were running late. We six oldest had gone out and brought back bread, jam, eggs, and fresh milk and fruit for breakfast. We'd then roused the younger girls and tried to get them moving, but the last week and a half of not having to be anywhere at a particular time had made them sluggish. It was Oklahoma, a sandy blonde-haired, blue-eyed All-American girl, who finally got them moving by telling them that if they didn't hurry, the oldest girls would eat all the breakfast, and they wouldn't get any.

For the first time, I really considered Oklahoma. She was the one who got the little girls to sleep when the rest of us were busy. She was always willing to play with them to keep them occupied when one of us asked. At fifteen, she was at the perfect age to take over as leader when I left.

"Oklahoma," I murmured to Panic downstairs, as the girls wolfed down breakfast.

I expected a, "What about her?" but instead, Panic smiled, squeezed my shoulder, and nodded. I should have known she'd already chosen a main contender, and was just waiting for me to reach the same conclusion. Typical.

Within minutes, we were on our way, all of us still munching on bread or fruit. It was going to take us about two hours to get there with the little ones lollygagging, and it was already twenty past seven.

We finally made it to Manhattan and hurried toward the World building. One second, we were alone in our group, and the next, we were virtually surrounded by kids and teenagers all screaming and holding up various signs proclaiming their rights or support of the newsboys, every one of them surging toward the World building. I suddenly wished we'd thought to bring our own signs, although what would we have put on them?

We shoved our way to the front, near the entrance to the World building, and there I spotted all of Manhattan, Brooklyn screaming and whooping behind them. They were all laughing and gazing in disbelief at the positive swarm that surrounded them. I couldn't edge close enough to hear, but noticed Race pointing toward the front of the building, where a man in a suit was exiting, surrounded by policemen.

Almost before I could blink, Jack and David were beckoned forward, and they entered the building, glancing back uncertainly once. A great cheer went up as the doors closed behind them.

I managed to squeeze my way toward the boys from Brooklyn. Bourbon caught sight of me first and seized hold of my hand to pull me through the crowd. I broke free from where I'd been caught between two screaming boys and stumbled forward, slamming into Spot, who turned and caught me around the waist automatically.

When he saw it was me, he broke into the first real smile I'd seen out of him in days. "You came!" he yelled, and I could just barely hear him over the din of the crowd.

"Is that okay?" I yelled back, speaking close to his ear. He didn't answer, just flashed me another grin and turned away, his arm lingering around my waist.

A few minutes later, the balcony door of Pulitzer's office burst open, and we could vaguely see the small dots that were Pulitzer and Jack, Jack gesturing to us all, which inspired loud chanting and cheering. Pulitzer began gesticulating wildly toward us, yelling things we couldn't hear. They both turned and made their way back into the office, still yelling at each other.

After what seemed like an eternity, Spot broke away from me, leaving me feeling stranded next to Bourbon and the other Brooklyn boys, and followed the boys from Manhattan to a side door, the gate where they'd picked up their papers before the strike.

"Hey, fellas! They're over here!" I heard Spot yell, but couldn't catch sight of him. Moments later, the head of little Les Jacobs popped through the crowd, borne on Jack's shoulders.

Jack shouted out, "We beat 'em!" And the loudest cheer yet erupted from the previously still and silent, waiting crowd. I felt arms around me, lifting me off the ground, and twisted to see that Bourbon had yanked me into his arms. I was surprised, but pleased that he had begun considering me as not a burden, but as a friend. He released me with a grin and turned to Water, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

From off to the side, a carriage approached, Snyder in the front seat. Distantly, amidst the cheers of elation, I heard yells of fear, and climbed onto a stack of crates to look out over the crowd. Jack was attempting to run, but then there was Denton, the reporter, stopping him and turning him around. As a policeman guided Snyder off the front seat, I saw his hands were cuffed behind his back. My heart raced. Could it be?

I looked to the end of carriage as boys-nine of them, one right after the other-streamed out of the open doors. Then, slowly, the carriage rocking, came Crutchy, grinning. Snyder approached him, led by policeman. Crutchy spoke to Snyder, saying something I couldn't hear, but could tell was not something that Snyder liked. He was pushed into the carriage, and before one of the policemen could close the doors, Crutchy stopped him, closing them himself and throwing the lock.

Yet another cheer went up from the crowd, and as Crutchy made his way back to his friends, kids swarmed the carriage and pounded on its doors.

Crutchy was welcomed back a hero, and I beamed and stepped down from the crate. Panic was immediately at my side.

"If we're gonna do this, we should do it soon," she said into my ear, and I didn't have to ask what she meant.

"I know," I replied with a sigh. "We need to talk to Spot first."

"We'll never be able t' find 'im in this mess," she cried, gesturing to the still-celebrating crowd.

I gazed at all the faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, then turned back to Panic. "You're right," I said, "We should just go to Brooklyn. They have to go back there to sell this afternoon."

"Who do you want to come?" she asked, looking around for the girls.

"Just you and me to Brooklyn," I decided. "We'll tell the others to be in Manhattan tonight, in view of Irving Hall. We'll have to go there; Jack well get us into a room. Kloppman won't let us into the lodging house."

Panic nodded, and we quickly spread out to let the other oldest girls know our plan. They looked grim and nervous, but nodded. Panic and I had talked to them the night before. I knew their biggest worry was not turf wars, as we had all agreed that the threat of those was nearly extinct, but instead, how their respective boys would react.

Mugger had, unbeknownst to me, been meeting up with Water in Brooklyn. She insisted that she wasn't looking for anything serious, just a little fun, but I wasn't sure. She was, after all, a girl, and it was a pretty well-known characteristic of our gender that our heart got involved whether we wanted it to or not.

Lady and Angel had finally gotten close to Blink and Skittery, and they weren't going to let go of that without a fight. They'd been meeting them nearly every day, conjuring up a "lunch break" from their imaginary jobs as governesses.

And Panic, well. You'd have to pry Mush from Panic's cold, dead fingers if you wanted to get her away from him.

None of this was going to be easy.

.

A/N: The next chapter of this story will be the last. It's half-written right now...I was going to post them together, but it would have been ridiculously long, so I decided to split them up.

I'd like to add here that I am usually not so pathetic that I have this much time to sit around and write like this. I have contracted Conlon's cold, and now we are both feeling like complete shit. Blah. I desperately want to get the hell out of my house and go hang out with people, but I don't want to expose others to my death-like cold. Ick. Plus, I'm not working at the high school this week, which I thought I'd like since I worked 3 days in a row last week (and paid a bundle for child care), but now I'm not only sick, but also BORED! Hence the crazy amount of writing and updating going on, here. Please forgive me; I'm really not this much of a loser. :/

The title of the sequel will be posted at the end of the next and final chapter, so you will be able to find it.

Review!


	14. Chapter 12: END

Panic and I walked briskly through the streets and over the bridge to Brooklyn, hitching rides when we could, jumping off and dashing away when we were caught.

We reached the Brooklyn docks by way of side streets, and inexplicably arrived after Spot, who had somehow managed to overtake us.

He and Bourbon were the only ones there. The others, I assumed, were making their own way back. The papers weren't due to be sold for another hour at least.

They were reclining on crates, both laughing, when our heels on the dock caught their attention. They both immediately stood, concern etched on both their faces.

"What're you doin' here?" Spot asked, approaching me. "What's wrong?"

How quickly he went from elation and joy to preparing for the worst. It was a sad fact of our upbringing that the good rarely lasted, and there was usually more bad on the way.

"Nothing," I said, but I couldn't look him in the eye. I glanced at Bourbon, who stood behind Spot, and he nodded, his eyes lighting with comprehension. "We need to talk to you."

And so we did. I outlined our plan with a lot of help from Bourbon, and additions from Panic, while Spot listened, his arms folded so tightly across his body it was a wonder he could still breathe. His face clouded, and he ground his teeth together. By the time we were finished, he was so still it was eerie, and the fact that he had never once interrupted made me wary.

Finally, he dropped his arms, and all his breath rushed out of him. He licked his bottom lip and turned his head in Bourbon's direction. "Take Panic inside and get 'er somethin' t' drink. I'll be there in a minute."

Once they'd gone, he stepped closer to me, so close I could feel the heat emanating from his chest and his breath on my face. He reached up, and I tensed, but his hands were more gentle than I'd expected as he took hold of my forearms.

"First..." he began, "I'll stand behind ya if this is what ya wanna do." The knot of trepidation in my chest eased slightly. "I'll protect ya, and so will Bourbon and the rest o' my boys. I'll make sure the next leader knows that protectin' ya is his job, and he'll do it for free. I know Jack'll do the same. Ya right. The threat t' your territory is pretty much gone. Ya shouldn' even need us, really."

I heaved a sigh of relief, amazed that it had been so easy to convince him. Then I remembered. He'd said, "First."

"Second," he continued, and I felt my nerves return, "Are ya really doin' this t' save the girls who come next? Or are ya doin' this t' get away from _me_?"

"_Oh_, Spot," I said, feeling ready to cry, which horrified the self-preservationist in me. "No. That's...this isn't about you." I backtracked. "Well, I don't know, maybe it is. But not like that." I paused in order to organize my thoughts. "I don't want to get away from you. But I don't want us to do anything with each other because we have to. I don't want it to be some sort of requirement."

"So what _do_ you want?" he asked, releasing me and taking a step back.

My heart was hammering in my chest, so hard I could feel my pulse in my throat, and though I was tempted to make something up, I didn't. For the first time, I told the whole truth. "_You_," I said simply.

His expression was inscrutable, then he shifted his weight and swept his hat off his head.

"Gleam..." he started, then trailed off. "You...you know that I never...I never thought o' you as jus'...a deal an' nothin' more-" I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "I know I said it before. I was mad. I wanted t' hurt you. But I..."

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if the words he had in his mind were too much for him to say out loud. "You mean a lot more t' me than that," he finished, and I knew that was as close to "I love you" as I was going to get.

I stepped forward.

At exactly the same moment, he took another step back, as though this were a dance, not a conversation, and I felt it: the final piece of the wall that had been building between us for days now, shifting into place, and I knew what was going to happen next before it did.

"I can't be who ya want me t' be," he said, looking distressed, but not nearly as distressed as I felt. "I'm not the guy with the steady girl. I'm not the guy who's faithful, and tha's what y' want. I can't give that t' you."

I know it sounds corny and unforgivably trite, but at his words, I felt my heart break. It was a real, physical feeling, less like the breaking glass I'd always imagined, and more like someone had reached into my chest, grabbed hold of my heart, and torn a chunk out with their bare hands.

I could hardly breathe. Here it was, finally: He cared for me, loved me even, but he wasn't willing to change to be with me. Vaguely, as though I was watching from afar, I felt myself nod, and whisper, "Okay." I wanted to argue, but I didn't have the breath necessary, and I felt myself spinning down into my own emotions, losing myself inside my own mind.

The next few hours were hazy, and I couldn't seem to find my way out of my head. Panic and I hung around the docks while the boys went to sell, and though she tried valiantly to talk to me, to make me tell her what had happened, I couldn't speak.

I wanted to; I really did want to. But my thoughts were swirling so fast, and my emotions were literally clogging my throat, and I couldn't force myself to speak.

So we sat in silence until Bourbon and Spot came back. They had told the boys, I could tell. Spot nodded to me once, and in that nod, I knew that not only had Brooklyn been told, but they were also on board to help us if the need arose.

My brain had refocused upon their return, my survival instincts kicking in and deciding that, in the choice between fight or flight, I would choose to fight. I had to face Spot: face him, and finish this last duty together. And then...what?

I didn't know. I didn't have the extra brain power to even wonder.

Water was trailing after Spot and Bourbon, looking a little lost and off-guard. When they reached us, he moved to the front and stared at me. "Is it true?" he asked gruffly, and I knew his disbelief was just the first of many we'd encounter tonight.

"Yes," I sighed, then moved closer. "I'm sorry. About Mug-about Ginny. She..." I didn't know what to say. What would she want me to say? What did _he_ want me to say? How did they really feel about each other? Did her real identity, her real life, even matter to him? "She's already in Manhattan, waiting, so you'll be able to talk to her."

He nodded and looked away. I sensed a certain role-reversal in his situation. Whereas I was the love struck fool in my "relationship" (for _serious_ lack of a better word) I got the idea he was the one in his.

Stop, stop, _stop_. I could _not_ think about this now. I had to focus. I had to handle this next phase of the plan; I had to go along to Manhattan and lay out the truth for them. I had to help Panic and the other girls talk to their boys. I had to lead. I had been failing lately, so absorbed in my own drama I couldn't see past it to see them.

It ended now. I only had a few months-6, to be precise, until I turned eighteen on January seventeenth, and until then, I had to be the leader I used to be. I had to get back to _who_ I used to be.

After tonight, would I ever see Spot again? As we all walked to Manhattan, hurrying along in the falling darkness, I couldn't help but wonder. The obligation had been lifted, and there were no more requirements. He had told me where he stood. What else was there to say? He'd made himself perfectly clear, and there wasn't much else to do, except let it go.

I sighed and looked up from my feet, which I'd been studying in order to avoid looking at Spot's back as he walked directly in front of me, between Bourbon and Water. None of us spoke. Unlike the companionable silence in which Panic and I sometimes walked: the kind that felt comfortable and familiar alongside your best friend, the kind of silence that occurred when words were unnecessary because you knew each other so well, this silence was tense, awkward, and uneasy.

I had to fight the very physical urge to reach forward and grab Spot's shoulder, the urge to yank him around and kiss him. Kiss him until-what?-he changed? Grew up?

There was nothing I could say or do to force him to mature except wait. Nothing but time would change him, and even that was nothing more than a chance. The fact of the matter was, for all that I wanted him, wanted to be with him, ideally forever, he was still just a boy. He hadn't grown into a man, yet, and that's what I needed.

Maybe he was doing me a favor. He knew who he was, knew what he was capable of, what he was ready for. He wasn't ready for this.

But could I sit around and wait while he grew up enough to be ready? I didn't know. On the one hand, was I so fickle that I could just turn away without a backward glance and find someone new? On the other, was I so pathetic that I would twiddle my thumbs, stuck in limbo until he realized what we could be together?

It was one of those situations where, after telling someone about it, they'd shrug, and say, "Damned if you do, damned if you don't." And it would be true. There was no option open to me that would make me happy. The only thing that would, would be if Spot suddenly turned around and said, "I was a fool. I love you; that's all that matters. Be with me." It didn't take a genius to figure out that that wasn't going to happen.

Maybe it happened all the time in romance novels, but the fact was, that kind of thinking was nothing more than a young girl's fancy. The real world was messy, it was hard, and a lot of the time the bad outweighed the good. There was a lot of muddling through hard times before you reached a brief, shining, perfect moment. Perfection was hard to come by, and even harder to hold on to.

Next thing I knew, I was slamming into Spot's back, my dipped forehead connecting with the smooth expanse where his shoulders joined his neck, my nose smushing into the dip between his shoulder blades.

"Sorry," I murmured, not even having the energy to feel embarrassed. I looked up. We had arrived in Manhattan, and were standing in front of the lodging house.

"The girls are by Irving Hall," I whispered to Panic.

"No they're not," she replied, gesturing. Taller than me, she could see over the heads of the boys. I stood on my tiptoes to look.

Lady, Angel, Mugger, and Sprint were sitting on the stoop of the lodging house, surrounded by boys. Lady was sitting practically on Blink's lap, and Angel and Skittery were mirroring them.

Sprint was sitting close to David, smiling up at him as he spoke. I understood. Her whole job was about listening and reporting, and David desperately wanted to be heard.

The other boys were talking and laughing, still running high on the victory we'd had that afternoon. Jack and Sarah were sitting next to each other, their knees turned in and touching. Les was absent, home sleeping, I assumed.

Mugger was off to the side, looking vaguely bored by the conversation around her, and her eyes lit up when she saw Water. She hopped off the stoop and approached our glum group. Her smile faded when she reached us. We all must have been wearing variations of the same down-and-out expression. I could feel the frown on my face, pulling down my lips, weighting down my cheeks.

Water recoiled slightly when she reached him. Her face crumpled in dismay, and I again wondered how truthful she'd been when writing off their relationship as nothing serious.

Mugger turned away from him, still looking crestfallen, and Panic and I moved to the front of our small group to stand with her.

"Kassidy!" Mush looked up from his conversation with Blink (and Lady by extension) and bounded down the stairs. "Where were ya? I didn' even see ya at the strike this mornin'-the other girls said you was there."

"I-I was, but..." she replied, looking flustered and casting me a glance that clearly said, "Help!'

I leaned into her arm. "She had to help me with something today, so we had to rush off; sorry Mush." I cast him an apologetic smile.

Mush, always easygoing, flexible, took my explanation at face value and reached out to give Panic a quick, welcoming hug. "Well, ya here now," he said, as if that were all that mattered.

I sincerely hoped he would take our revelation with the same happy-go-lucky acceptance.

Lady, Angel, and Sprint, who had been watching with rapt attention, all stood as one and moved toward us. The three of them stood with Mugger, Panic, and myself, all of us in a line, like a veritable wall of solidarity.

Mush took us all in, and bemusement clouded his happy expression. He took a step back and leaned against the stair rail.

Spot cleared his throat. "The girls need t' talk t' all o' you," he said firmly, leaving no space for questions or inquiries before he went on, "Jack, we could go t' Irving Hall if ya could get Medda t' give us somewhere t' talk."

Jack stood up, and Sarah stood with him, Sarah looking confused, Jack wary. Jack nodded, and touched Swifty's arm. Swifty immediately nodded and vaulted off the stair, sprinting away toward Irving Hall.

"What's this about?" David asked, moving toward us, posing his question, not to Spot, but to Sprint, who looked at once embarrassed and uncomfortable. She squirmed to my left, and I reached down and held the side of her hand with the tips of my fingers.

"We'll tell ya as soon as we find somewhere private," Spot answered, and David was forced to turn toward him.

"Tell us _what_?" he pressed, not on to be deterred.

But no one answered him. The girls and I stood still and silent, all of us touching the girl to either side of us in some way-fingers on hands, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Spot and Bourbon avoided each other's eyes and kept their faces impassive, looking in the direction Swifty had gone, waiting for his return.

He was back in what I'm sure was no time at all, but felt like ages in the taut silence. He ran straight to Jack and murmured something to him. Jack straightened and said, "We got a room. Who's goin'?" he added.

Spot glanced at me, and I had to force myself to ignore the pang in my chest his eyes on mine caused. I shrugged. I didn't really care, honestly. It could be just Jack or every single one of them, and the outcome would be the same. They would all know almost immediately.

"Everyone can come," Spot said with the air of conceding defeat. He knew as well as I did that leaving people out wouldn't keep them from finding out, it would only cause complaints and protests.

In a clump we trooped to Irving Hall, and somewhere in the hustle I found myself sandwiched between Spot and Bourbon. Turning my head to the right, I could see Spot's profile, tense in the streetlamps; to the left, all I could see was Bourbon's firm shoulder, round and strong and covered in a thin, dusty dark blue long-john top.

We entered the side door and moved immediately to the same preparation room I'd worked in during the rally, although now it was covered in props and costumes. Countless chairs were pushed against the wall, and we each took one. There was much scrambling to find a place, and in the end, it was Manhattan and Sarah on one side, my girls and myself on the other, flanked by Spot and Bourbon.

Spot was on my right, Panic on my left. I could feel the tension in their bodies, and knew the same stress was emanating from mine.

"Wha's this all about, Spot?" Jack asked from between Sarah and Racetrack. I ran my eyes down the line from left to right, reading their faces like words in a book: Blink, Mush, Bumlets, Swifty, Skittery, David, Sarah, Jack, Racetrack, Specs, Dutchy.

Spot glanced at me, and I could almost hear him asking, "Should I do it or do you want to?" although his mouth never moved. Part of me wanted to sit back and let him do it: that would certainly be the easy way out. But it was also the coward's way out, and I'd already been enough of a coward today, what with accepting Spot's cop out without a fight.

I'd decided in Brooklyn: it was time to fight. And if I couldn't fight for Spot, I'd fight for my girls.

I stood up, and all the eyes in the room, eyes that had before been on Spot, turned to me. I heard the intake of breath from my five girls, and then nervousness threatened to overtake me. All I could hear was my heart slamming in my ears. My blood pressure was so high I could have sworn I could feel my blood rushing through my veins.

I drew in a deep breath and opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I tried again, exhaling and inhaling, and this time, the pressure behind my ribcage loosened enough so I could speak. But where to begin? "First of all," I began, my voice much stronger than I'd expected it to be; for that, I was proud. "I'm so sorry. We're all so sorry. You don't...you can't possibly know what I'm talking about yet, but please believe me when I tell you that all of you guys mean a lot to us." I paused, looking away from the identical nonplussed looks on the faces of Manhattan and turning half around to look at my girls. They were all nodding, encouraging. Their approval gave me confidence. I turned back to face Manhattan and continued.

"We've been lying to you. We're not shop girls, or governesses, or maids, or whatever else it was we told you."

Eleven brows furrowed, and eleven people snuck sidelong glances at one another before returning their attention to my face.

My hands were shaking, and I ran them down my hips and thighs, trying to steady them. "We don't live in Manhattan," I continued. "We're from Queens, and-"

I broke off when Jack suddenly straightened violently. He looked from me to Spot and back. I could almost hear the gears in his head turning, trying to make sense of the conclusion his instincts had already reached.

"We're newsgirls," I said, and hurried on before anyone could react. "We run Queens. There are no boys there. I'm the leader." I knew I wasn't being very eloquent, but I figured it was best to get it all out there as quickly as possible, like ripping off a bandage, and then deal with the questions.

Jack leapt to his feet, his mouth open, then glanced around himself as though unsure how he'd gone from sitting to standing. Everyone else seemed shocked into silence. Skittery, I could see, had focused his eyes on Angel, who was trying to look anywhere but into his gaze. Blink was doing the same to Lady. David had leaned back in his chair and was shooting glances at Sprint, who looked like she was about to cry.

Mush stood as well, and crossed to Panic, who cowered in her chair behind me. I turned to watch as he crouched down in front of her. "Is this true?" I heard him ask, his voice soft. She nodded, her eyes full and her chin trembling, and, as I watched, utterly amazed, he hugged her.

I felt a great swell of affection for Mush. He was one of the few people in the world who were inherently good. He didn't have a mean or vindictive bone in his body.

Jack spoke above the murmurings. "How can this be true?" he asked hotly. "Queens is full o' guys who'd jus' as soon kill ya as talk to ya." He turned suddenly to Spot and Bourbon, who had not moved.

"We heard those rumors from _you_, Spot," he said accusingly, pointing a finger. Suddenly, all eyes were on Spot, and I instantly felt sorry for him, caught there under everyone's suspicious eyes.

Spot stood, and without thinking, I went to stand next to him. Whatever happened between us-, more likely, _didn't_ happen between us-from here on out, this, at least, we were together in.

Spot inhaled deeply and lifted his chin, looking defiant. "We had a deal," he said. "Gleam," he nodded to me, and Jack flicked his gaze to me briefly, "An' me. I spread the rumors and kept 'er girls an' her safe."

"In exchange for what?" David asked, his voice just slightly higher than usual, as though he already knew, moving forward to stand next to Jack. Suddenly, everyone was standing, Spot and me in the middle of the clump.

He glanced at me, and I closed my eyes for a moment, dreading what was coming: the scandalized looks, the condemning stares, the gasps.

When I opened them, Bourbon had stepped forward to stand on my left, tucked behind my shoulder like a strong wall for me to lean on.

"Sex," Spot answered, and it was just as I'd expected. There was great collective gasp, and then everyone was talking at once.

I couldn't stand it. "Stop, stop, stop!" I yelled, waving my arms. Everyone shut up and turned to me. "It's not his fault," I said shrilly, pointing at Spot. "It's not _mine_, either," I added, jabbing myself in the chest. "This deal has been in place for over thirty years. It was _put_ in place because turf wars were so common and so brutal back then, and the Queens leader knew her lies were close to crumbling. She did it to protect her family. It was _her_ idea. She brought it to Brooklyn."

I was half-yelling, talking in a rush and pacing, cutting lines through the group as people stepped back to let me by. "Back then, it was the only way we could hold on to our territory. It was the only solution; don't you see? Spot and I didn't come up with this-we _inherited_ it!"

Everyone glanced at Spot, who was standing where I'd left him, but he said nothing, just kept watching me, his eyes following the path I was stalking.

"We only just realized that it doesn't have to _be_ like this anymore. Turf wars almost never happen, and when they do, they're so half-assed they barely matter." I halted and turned to Jack.

"Spot already talked to Brooklyn, and they're on board. If anything ever does happen, they'll help Queens. We wanted to tell you, too, and see if you'd agree to help, too, if it ever came to that."

"Why should I?" Jack yelled, moving toward me. I knew what was making him so angry. He didn't like this one final piece of evidence that Brooklyn really was the most powerful borough, the most in-the-know. It had been Brooklyn Cameo had turned to all those years ago, and now, it was Brooklyn-and Spot-I depended on now.

"Because you're good," I said softly, stepping closer to him. "You all are," I said louder, running my glance over all the Manhattan newsies. "And a few of you care about my girls," I added.

Skittery looked wounded, and he pushed through the group to confront Angel. "Was that what this was? Did you start this with me so you could use me?"

His words caused a visible shock to go through Blink, who turned to Lady, the question in his eyes. Mush, however, stayed still and silent at Panic's side, and I wanted to hug him, or at the very least, high-five him.

Angel didn't seem to know what to say, but Panic did. "_No_, Skittery," she said loudly, then turned to Mush. "Gleam almost killed me when I started talkin' t' you, and I really thought she was gonna soak me when I agreed t' come t' that party in Brooklyn, but I couldn' help it." She cast me a sheepish look, and I rolled my eyes, unable to keep the small smile from my face. "We been watchin' you all for so long, and...we jus' wan'ed you t' _know us_," she finished, her eyes pleading.

Mush smiled and said nothing, just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. I watched as Skittery and Blink's faces relaxed as Angel and Lady repeated those sentiments to them.

Jack was still staring at me, and I squirmed under his scrutiny. "You slept with him," he said flatly, and so loudly that everyone heard and turned to regard me.

My face burned, and I felt shame and fury rise in my chest. _How dare he? _"I don't see what that has to do with you," I spat, feeling cornered.

Suddenly, Spot had stepped forward and lifted his hands to grip my shoulders. He pulled me back just slightly so that my back was pressed against his chest. "Don' look at 'er like that, Jacky-Boy," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Sarah stepped forward and spoke for the first time. I had forgotten she was even there. "I knew there was something wrong with you," she said, her voice righteous. "I knew you were a _whore_." She flung the word at me, and I stiffened. Spot's hands clamped down on my shoulders, his fingertips digging into my flesh, not to stop me from flying at her, I knew, but to stop himself.

"Shut up," he growled. "Jack, ya better control ya girl or get 'er outta here, 'cause I'm not gonna stand by an' let 'er talk to Gleam like that."

Jack studied us for the smallest of moments, then nodded. He pulled Sarah toward him and murmured, "Go home." She protested, but he insisted. She went, and David went with her, promising to return as quickly as he could.

Once they were gone, Spot squeezed my shoulders once and released me, stepping away. I wished he'd stayed. I felt the strength drain out of me as he moved away.

"So, wha' d'ya say, Jack?" Bourbon said, finally speaking. "Will ya help us protect 'em if they need it? Will ya make sure the boys who come after us know that it's their job?"

It wasn't Jack who answered first, but Mush. From where he still stood with Panic under his arm, he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I'm in. I ain' gonna let anythin' happen t' any o' these girls."

"I'm in, too," called Skittery, and Angel beamed at him. He smiled slightly at her, and I knew they'd be alright. Skittery would be a little standoffish for maybe a few hours or days, but he'd come around.

"Same here," said Blink, and he reached out his hand for Lady, who grasped it and beamed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mugger walk over to Water and take his hand. He didn't look at her, his eyes on Jack, waiting for his answer, but he didn't pull his hand away, either, and his fingers curled around hers.

Jack sighed and gave a one-sided grin, and I knew he was going to agree. The secret was out, and we were all ready to move on to the next phase, whatever that phase turned out to be.

{END}

A/N: DONE! Baaahahah! Yay! Not quite, obviously, since there's still the sequel, but now comes the three year jump, so THIS particular story will be ending. I know I said I would post the title of the sequel in here, but...I don't have the title figured out, yet...so, when I post the prologue of the sequel, I will come back into this story to post the link so no one misses out. It should be up soon! 3

Love 'n' Mush Pants (it's been a long time since I did that),

Glimm


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